#traditional dry cakes

[arttsuka]

it was a compliment with the toffee and carmel with the good texture

:) i like them with the good, smooth texture ye

Take this doodle that I wasn't going to post

[marzipanpisser]

i forgot i can post my art Call this numba now call this numba now..

Based on Cakedpie's super awesome caked up music video go watch it woww he's so talented

[reasonsforhope]

"In response to last year’s record-breaking heat due to El Niño and impacts from climate change, Indigenous Zenù farmers in Colombia are trying to revive the cultivation of traditional climate-resilient seeds and agroecology systems.

One traditional farming system combines farming with fishing: locals fish during the rainy season when water levels are high, and farm during the dry season on the fertile soils left by the receding water.

Locals and ecologists say conflicts over land with surrounding plantation owners, cattle ranchers and mines are also worsening the impacts of the climate crisis.

To protect their land, the Zenù reserve, which is today surrounded by monoculture plantations, was in 2005 declared the first Colombian territory free from GMOs.

...

In the Zenù reserve, issues with the weather, climate or soil are spread by word of mouth between farmers, or on La Positiva 103.0, a community agroecology radio station. And what’s been on every farmer’s mind is last year’s record-breaking heat and droughts. Both of these were charged by the twin impacts of climate change and a newly developing El Niño, a naturally occurring warmer period that last occurred here in 2016, say climate scientists.

Experts from Colombia’s Institute of Hydrology, Meteorology and Environmental Studies say the impacts of El Niño will be felt in Colombia until April 2024, adding to farmers’ concerns. Other scientists forecast June to August may be even hotter than 2023, and the next five years could be the hottest on record. On Jan. 24, President Gustavo Petro said he will declare wildfires a natural disaster, following an increase in forest fires that scientists attribute to the effects of El Niño.

In the face of these changes, Zenù farmers are trying to revive traditional agricultural practices like ancestral seed conservation and a unique agroecology system.

Pictured: Remberto Gil’s house is surrounded by an agroforestry system where turkeys and other animals graze under fruit trees such as maracuyá (Passiflora edulis), papaya (Carica papaya) and banana (Musa acuminata colla). Medicinal herbs like toronjil (Melissa officinalis) and tres bolas (Leonotis nepetifolia), and bushes like ají (Capsicum baccatum), yam and frijol diablito (beans) are part of the undergrowth. Image by Monica Pelliccia for Mongabay.

“Climate change is scary due to the possibility of food scarcity,” says Rodrigo Hernandez, a local authority with the Santa Isabel community. “Our ancestral seeds offer a solution as more resistant to climate change.”

Based on their experience, farmers say their ancestral seed varieties are more resistant to high temperatures compared to the imported varieties and cultivars they currently use. These ancestral varieties have adapted to the region’s ecosystem and require less water, they tell Mongabay. According to a report by local organization Grupo Semillas and development foundation SWISSAID, indigenous corn varieties like blaquito are more resistant to the heat, cariaco tolerates drought easily, and negrito is very resistant to high temperatures.

The Zenù diet still incorporates the traditional diversity of seeds, plant varieties and animals they consume, though they too are threatened by climate change: from fish recipes made from bocachico (Prochilodus magdalenae), and reptiles like the babilla or spectacled caiman (Caiman crocodilus), to different corn varieties to prepare arepas (cornmeal cakes), liquor, cheeses and soups.

“The most important challenge we have now is to save ancient species and involve new generations in ancestral practice,” says Sonia Rocha Marquez, a professor of social sciences at Sinù University in the city of Montería.

...[Despite] land scarcity, Negrete says communities are developing important projects to protect their traditional food systems. Farmers and seed custodians, like Gil, are working with the Association of Organic Agriculture and Livestock Producers (ASPROAL) and their Communitarian Seed House (Casa Comunitaria de Semillas Criollas y Nativas)...

Pictured: Remberto Gil is a seed guardian and farmer who works at the Communitarian Seed House, where the ASPROL association stores 32 seeds of rare or almost extinct species. Image by Monica Pelliccia for Mongabay.

Located near Gil’s house, the seed bank hosts a rainbow of 12 corn varieties, from glistening black to blue to light pink to purple and even white. There are also jars of seeds for local varieties of beans, eggplants, pumpkins and aromatic herbs, some stored in refrigerators. All are ancient varieties shared between local families.

Outside the seed bank is a terrace where chickens and turkeys graze under an agroforestry system for farmers to emulate: local varieties of passion fruit, papaya and banana trees grow above bushes of ají peppers and beans. Traditional medicinal herbs like toronjil or lemon balm (Melissa officinalis) form part of the undergrowth.

Today, 25 families are involved in sharing, storing and commercializing the seeds of 32 rare or almost-extinct varieties.

“When I was a kid, my father brought me to the farm to participate in recovering the land,” says Nilvadys Arrieta, 56, a farmer member of ASPROAL. “Now, I still act with the same collective thinking that moves what we are doing.”

“Working together helps us to save, share more seeds, and sell at fair price [while] avoiding intermediaries and increasing families’ incomes,” Gil says. “Last year, we sold 8 million seeds to organic restaurants in Bogotà and Medellín.”

So far, the 80% of the farmers families living in the Zenù reserve participate in both the agroecology and seed revival projects, he adds."

-via Mongabay, February 6, 2024

[chinesehanfu]

[Hanfu · 漢服]The past and present of "eating mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival"

As the Mid-Autumn Festival/Zhong Qiu Jie 中秋节 is coming, let us learn how “mooncakes/月饼�� became an iconic traditional food of the Mid-Autumn Festival

🌕🥮Mooncake/月饼🥮🏮

A mooncake (simplified Chinese: 月饼; traditional Chinese: 月餅) is a Chinese bakery product traditionally eaten during the Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋節).The festival is primarily about the harvest while a legend connects it to moon watching, and mooncakes are regarded as a delicacy. Mooncakes are offered between friends or on family gatherings while celebrating the festival. The Mid-Autumn Festival is widely regarded as one of the four most important Chinese festivals.

Mooncakes were originally used as offerings to worship the moon god.

Worshiping the moon is a very old custom in China. It is actually a worship activity for the "moon god" by the ancients. Eating mooncakes and appreciating the moon during the Mid-Autumn Festival are indispensable customs for celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival in all parts of China. Mooncakes symbolize reunion. People regard them as festive food, use them to worship the moon, and give them to relatives and friends.

Cultural relics believed to be the predecessor of mooncakes were unearthed:

<China Tang Dynasty Baoxiang flower-patterned mooncakes/宝相花月饼>⬇️

Mooncakes, traditionally offered as a tribute to the Moon Goddess, have a long and rich history. The term "mooncake" was first recorded in the Southern Song Dynasty in Wu Zimu’s <梦梁录/Meng Liang Lu>.

Over time, mooncakes merged with various regional culinary traditions, giving rise to different styles such as Cantonese, Shanxi, Beijing, Suzhou, Chaozhou, and Yunnan mooncakes, all of which are beloved by people across China：

Mooncakes truly became associated with the Mid-Autumn Festival during the Ming Dynasty. In the writings of Liu Ruoyu 刘若愚, a eunuch during the reigns of the Wanli and Chongzhen emperors, he mentioned in his prison work Zhuozhong Zhi 《酌中志》(Vol. 20, "Brief Record of Culinary Preferences"): “八月宫中赏秋海棠、玉簪花。自初一日起，即有卖月饼者。加以西瓜、藕，互相馈送。西苑鹿藕。至十五日，家家供月饼瓜果，候月上焚香后，即大肆饮啖，多竟夜始散席者。如有剩月饼，仍整收于干燥风凉之处，至岁暮合家分用之，曰‘团圆饼’也”

Translation：

"In August, the palace having event appreciates autumn crabapple blossoms. From the first day of the month, mooncakes are sold,it accompanied by watermelons and lotus roots, and are exchanged as gifts.By the fifteenth day, every household offers mooncakes and fruits in worship, waiting for the moon to rise before burning incense and feasting lavishly, with some gatherings lasting all night. If there are leftover mooncakes, they are stored in a dry and cool place until the end of the year, when the whole family shares them, calling them 'reunion cakes.'

In the Qing Dynasty, there were books that detailed the methods of making mooncakes. For example, Zeng Yi, a female writer and female doctor in the late Qing Dynasty, recorded the "Method of Making Crisp Mooncakes" in her book "Zhongkuilu": "Use white ash flour, half of which is steamed in a steamer, and no water vapor is seen; the other half is raw, and kneaded with lard and cold water. Then, mix the steamed flour with lard. Use a ball of raw oil flour, and wrap a small ball of cooked oil flour inside; use a rolling pin to roll it into a cup-sized shape, fold it into a square; roll it into a ball again, and fold it into a square again; then wrap the filling. Use a cake stamp to stamp it, and put it on the stove to cook. For the oil-flavored filling, use cooked flour, sugar, walnuts, etc., and add a little sesame oil, so that it will not fall apart." The method is very similar to today's Suzhou-style mooncakes.

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🧚🏻‍Production & Model/Makeup：@曾嚼子

🔗Xiaohongshu:https://www.xiaohongshu.com/discovery/item/66e66ef70000000026033df2

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[urhoneycombwitch]

frozen like an angel

Eddie Munson x shy!Reader holiday edition.

foreword: ohhhh I’ve missed them!!! and you all!!!! happy holidays to those who celebrate, and for those who don’t, have a cozy winter fic <3 here is the masterlist for shy!reader, some references may be made to previous fics in the series but no beforehand reading required here. 

cw: Christmas activities, bittersweet fluff, Elizabeth Munson memories, mentions of Reader’s familial backstory (intentionally a bit vague, hoping to expand in future fics!)

wc: 2.8k

___

You’re not even trying to snoop- the paper flutters to the carpet all on its own, freed from the stack of Eddie’s notebooks you’d lifted to dust under. 

Expecting it to be something D&D related, you scoop it from the carpet with the intent to slip it back between the leaves of a random book- when the title catches your eye. In neat, looping black ink across the top: Christmas Apple Cake. 

There’s a pencil-drawn sketch of an apple in the top corner, faded and yellowed with time like the paper it’s on; your thumb runs over it as you scan the ingredients. 

This’ll be perfect, actually- Wayne is coming over tonight for holiday drinks with you and Eddie, a Munson family tradition that’s included you the last six or so years, and you haven’t sorted dessert yet.

The recipe is simple- a hearty, apple-filled spiced cake base, brown sugar glaze to pool on top. After hunting through the kitchen cupboards (sometimes it’s glaringly apparent you live in a former bachelor pad- the baking soda sourced from under the sink and a layer of dust), you get to work baking.

A pound of apples is peeled and diced, meticulously, to the tune of a Bing Crosby record- Eddie bemoans the cheesier aspects of holiday music, so you get your fill while he’s at work (though you’ve caught him humming along to White Christmas on more than one occasion). 

Not that either of you need the money after the generous nest-egg from various government agency pay-offs, but the part-time mechanic schedule has been good for Eddie. Wayne’s pretty much set to take over when the garage owner retires next year, and Eddie is happy to help- keeps his mind and hands busy, sorely needed after so much recovery downtime. 

And you’ve been busy, too- the apples are set to soak in cold water while you prep the batter, thinking of post-winter break classes already. You passed your first end-of-term exams with flying colors, like Eddie knew you would- never mind that they were all 101s, and that your college plans seem a little directionless- at least you’re moving. Able to do something other than waiting to get better.

Eddie’s proud of you, deeply so. That’s really all that matters for now. 

With the batter mixed, you lift handfuls of apple chunks from the water to dry on the rows of flat kitchen towels. There’s a burst of static from the living room speakers; you flick water from your hands and cross swiftly to flip the record to its B-side.

Let It Snow! rings out cheerily while you stir the apples bit by bit into the batter, Deck the Halls by the time you’re pouring the mixture into a greased baking tin. After twisting the counter timer to tick down for an hour, you clean the kitchen in good spirits.

Eddie will be home, soon- Wayne’s closing up shop, which gives his nephew plenty of time to beat him home and cook you all dinner. There’s a tender strip of beef marinating in the fridge with something Eddie referred to yesterday, ominously, as “Grinch Juice”. (The pale green of the sauce is likely due to the rosemary. You think.)

Eddie’s got the meal covered, regardless. (Plus there are always frozen pizzas to fall back on.)

The air swells with warmth from the oven, taking on a sugared, nutmeg and applesauce smell; the little window over the sink fogs over with sweet steam, making the white-snow world outside look even dreamier. Lights twinkle from the front banister, winking at the strip of sister lights across the path at the Mayfield’s door.

Plucking behind your back to loose your apron strings, you realize- for the first time in years, it feels like Christmas. Last year, you were all still learning how to be human, still nursing wounds (both external and in), stepping cautiously onto the thin ice of what it means to survive and be alive.

This year, though? You’re out in the middle of the frozen pond of life making snow angels. Ice skating over the bumps. Twirling around hand-in-hand with Eddie as you both figure it out, together.

Later, the front door creaks open then slams shut, a rhythmic thump of boots shedding snow onto the hall mat. From your vantage point on the couch- sock feet tucked underneath your body to keep warm, dog-eared Tolkien in your lap- you see Eddie before he sees you.

His back is turned as he toes off his work boots, hunched against the cold still in a hand-me-down winter coat of Wayne’s. Stray curls escape the half-up bun of his dark hair, twisting around his face, which lights up with a smile when he sees you.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, adopting a faux-serious, low tone as he hangs up his coat and shakes the snow from his hair. “Looks like we got an escapee from Santa’s Workshop.”

You snort, setting the book aside to roll your eyes fondly- if a red flannel shirt and jeans spells elf, you’re willing to play the part. 

Eddie approaches with menacing intent, grin so wide the corner of his lip meets the line of scarring at his cheek. 

He’s still in his work coveralls, pinstriped and oil-stained; Eddie leans his weight into his hands on either side of your head, close enough to bump noses, couch emitting a squeak of protest. 

You flick at the embroidered patch over Eddie’s heart, the one that currently reads JERRY. “Someone’s been naughty today.”

Eddie clicks his tongue, dark brows pulling together in his best approximation of someone who is very sorry. “Yeah. Guess so. You gonna tell the Big Boss on me?”

”Wouldn’t dream of it,” you sigh, tired of playing, ready to loop your arms around Eddie’s neck and kiss him silly (an action he’s more than willing to give in to).

He tastes like sharp mint, and faintly of the cigarette he probably had on break; Eddie mumbles something between kisses and you pull back just enough to hear him say, “You taste sweet.”

“Mmhm. Had to make sure the batter wasn’t poisoned,” you reply, more concerned with dotting kisses along the line of scar that disappears behind his jaw. 

Against your temple, Eddie’s lashes flutter in surprise- “You baked something?”

Pulling away fully now (with one last parting kiss to his forehead), you narrow your eyes as you shift to hold his shoulders at arm’s length- “Does me baking come as a shock to you?”

“No!” Eddie says, quickly, brows lowering from where they’d shot up just a second ago. “No, of course not. You just don’t usually… I mean, I like being the one in the kitchen.”

”I know you do.” Your hands trail to cup his elbows, briefly, before you disentangle yourself to check on the oven. The timer is just about to shriek its warning chorus- with a twist of your hand, it dings pleasantly instead. “I wanted to make something special for our Christmas dessert tonight. Hopefully it’s not actually poisoned.” 

Based on the delicious smell that wafts from the oven, you’ve got nothing to fear- the tines of your testing fork come out from the middle of the cake clean, a pair of mitts snagged to pull it out and set on the stove.

Clouds of steam rise from the fresh pastry, spiced and golden under the overhead lights- it smells like Christmas in a pan. Eddie approaches to watch over your shoulder, his hand steady on your low back as you explain the glaze that needs to be made next- he takes a lungful of fragrant air, and then his hand stills.

Eddie isn’t in the habit of interrupting you, so it’s strange when he does, voice sounding strained as he stumbles through the start of a few different sentences. “How did you- this is- that’s apple cake. My mom’s apple cake. What…”

It must be the smell, transporting him back, and for a moment, your heart sinks. Eddie hasn’t had a flashback in so long; the last one was months ago over the summer when a car backfired and sent his mind spiraling for hours after. 

You turn in his arms, speaking carefully, ready to soothe- “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, honestly, the recipe just fell out when I was moving your things, and I-”

Eddie’s eyes are brimming with tears when he interrupts you again- this time, to kiss you; there’s a slip of his tear that tracks down your own cheek as you kiss him back. 

He’s holding you, now, mirroring you from earlier, thumbs squeezing at the inside of your elbows, forehead resting in a slow roll against yours as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Don’t apologize. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t know… I didn’t think any recipes of hers survived the move from Tennessee.”

“It was in one of your old journals,” you murmur, reaching to wipe the wet track of tears from his face even as he moves to do the same for you. “Did your mom used to make this for you?”

“Yeah.” Eddie laughs, wetly, kisses the palm of your hand where it rests against his face. “Every Christmas until I was five or so. Got the recipe from her mom, some Appalachian tradition. Wayne would know better than me.”

Eddie’s looking at the cake again, a familiar hazed-over stare that makes your heart hurt in sympathy, memories flooding back in at an overwhelming degree. You’re quiet for a few moments, pressing your face into the side of Eddie’s coveralls, letting him find his footing before asking, quietly- “Wanna help me make the topping?”

In another life, you and Eddie would run a mean kitchen together- years of learning the distinct ways in which the other moves comes in handy when you need to share cooking duties. 

He ducks under your arm effortlessly to grab vanilla while you whisk the sugars and butter, adds splashes and dashes of things to your bowl periodically until the mulled glaze is formed. 

The top of his (Jerry’s) coveralls were shoved down earlier, your help enlisted to tie the long sleeves around his waist in a makeshift apron; good thing your boy runs hot- means he’s comfortable enough to cook in a white cutoff undershirt that’s thin as a napkin. Underneath, Eddie’s all alabaster, lean muscle, black ink tattoos dancing with the corded ripples of scar tissue as he flits around the kitchen.

Between getting the steak ready to sear, and tasking you with prepping the hill of potatoes, Eddie talks about his mother- holidays of years past floating to the forefront on a wave of recollected smell. 

Along with Tennessee apple cake, Elizabeth Munson would wrap chestnuts in tin foil to roast low and slow in the embers of a Christmas fire. One year, she penny-pinched enough to buy part of the neighbor’s turkey for her and then-five-year-old Eddie.

You soak up all these memories, asking questions periodically, immersed in Eddie’s storytelling. It’s rare to hear Elizabeth’s name, and you wonder, suddenly, if that could be changed.

“You know, I really like hearing about her,” you tell Eddie gently, after a gleeful retelling of the time she crashed his sled into the big stump of maple at the edge of their woods. You give the chopped potatoes on your cutting board a push, and they tumble into Eddie’s proffered bowl. “If there’s something I can do, to help… I dunno, make it easier to bring her up- you’d let me know. Right?” 

Eddie considers this as he gathers jars from the narrow spice cupboard, lining them up in a neat row. “Yeah. Thanks, sweetheart. And it’s not… you’re easy to talk to. It’s just hard, sometimes, to learn how to remember her.”

You nod, thoughtful, watching him layer spices and olive oil into the bowl; he uses a wooden spoon to make sure all the potato sides are coated before saying, “And sometimes, it feels downright braggy. I got six whole years with her- most all of ‘em good ones- it’s not something I take for granted. And your mother-”

Eddie cuts himself off, abruptly, knuckles glistening with oil as they tighten into fists. Something inside you wilts, stretches desperately for its light source; you budge up under Eddie’s arm, place a hand to the middle of his chest where his breaths meet you with a shuddery kickstart.

“I know. But you were a kid too, Eddie. Six is just a kid.”

He does his best to hug you back with one arm as your nose seeks the notch behind his ear, a perfect fit, enveloping your senses as you breathe in the spot that smells most like him. “You can share however much or however little you want, of her, with me. Just ‘cuz my parents sucked doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear about your one good one. Let me live vicariously, okay?”

You give Eddie a teasing little shake, a flash of teeth against his neck that has him chuckling, shaking off the anger before either of you can be derailed. The potatoes are moved to a baking sheet while Eddie preps the meat, and you send a river of brown sugar glaze over top the cake so it has time to cool.

If Wayne notes the missing piece from the corner of the dessert, later, he doesn’t mention it- the whiskey he’d brought over pairs perfectly with the rich, spiced cake. 

One bite in and Wayne’s head turns, slow, to his nephew sat beside him. Without looking up from his spoonful of melting ice cream, Eddie nods. “Yup. Mom’s cake. Don’t look at me, though.”

Wayne blinks down at the bowl in front of him, then to you, like someone’s woken him from the middle of a dream. “Tastes just like how she used to make it.”

Were it possible to bottle and live off someone’s praise, you’d like to find a way; instead, you tuck the compliment away for a rainy day and give him a warm smile. “I’m glad. I’ll make it next year, too, if you want.”

After dinner (totally delicious despite Eddie’s best attempt to scare you both off with increasingly weird holiday-themed adjectives), Eddie pulls out his acoustic guitar to try his new capo, a gift from Uncle Wayne that’s immediately put to good use.

This autumn, on the same week you went to college for the first time, Eddie taught himself how to play guitar again. A year on from the attacks, his left hand was still stiff, a deep scar across the bridge of his abductor that made more dexterous movement near-impossible.

But your boy, smart and strong and determined, found a way. Eddie surprised you over Thanksgiving break with a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Hypnotized, though with multiple false starts since both of you cried most of the way through it.

Less tears, this time around, but no less emotional- you steal glances under the pretense of wiping down the table as Eddie sits wide on the couch, black guitar propped on his knees while he adjusts the capo. 

In a nearby armchair, Wayne takes a sip from his whiskey glass- at the first few notes of Edelweiss, his eyes slip closed, lost in memory.

“This was one of her favorites,” Eddie says to you, grinning while his fingers pluck the pattern smoothly.

You lean a hip against the table, wiping abandoned, taking in the gentle movement of Eddie’s hair, his arms, while he plays. He gets so lost in the music, sometimes- a soft look that usually only shows when he’s sleeping peacefully. 

You wonder if Elizabeth looked the same, all those years ago- bent over her special Christmas cake, sneaking tastes on the back of a spoon to the set of dimpled hands that reached for her apron. 

In your back pocket, the recipe card in her handwriting is tucked safely away. While Eddie plays, your fingers brush the outline of the pencil-etched apple, sending a prayer or a wish of some sort to the snow angel in your head.

He’s doing great. He’s so loved and cared for, with me. I hope you know I’m taking care of him. Merry Christmas. Thanks for the cake. 

___

for more shy!Reader content: masterlist

[avtrbee]

the prince [2]

✢summary: what happens when your husband brings home a son that is not yours?

✢tags: arranged marriage gojo satoru x reader, reader is a clan kid, she’s v traditional, obvious cat and jon snow references

✢tw: implications of cheating, mentioned abuse, misogyny ig, fanfic gojo, ooc gojo

✢ a/n: here's part 2! i'd like to emphasize that depsite this being a gojo x reader fic, the main realationships i'll be focusing on are y/n and the kids gojo brings home lmao. also im raw dogging the lore as we go so if there are any inconsistencies, please lmk. as always, have fun and lmk what you think!

i don’t do taglists.

part one ✢ masterlist

If it were up to you, you would have shut the gates of the Gojo estate as soon as the child entered the grounds, but your husband had given him the the maids so quickly that you’re sure they have spread the word around already. You could hear the rumors in your head. Gojo Satoru has brought home a child out of wedlock. Gojo Y/N is barren. Gojo Satoru has a mistress.

You expected Gojo to be frantic, stumbling over his words in explanation as to why he has a son- it was his son, there was no doubt about that- reassuring you about his vows remain unbroken, or whatever else but silence. You are silent too as you watch the child get scurried away by the estate staff to scrub the dirt off his face and to get a change of clothes.

Even as he is being escorted away from you, his cursed energy did not fade. You feel it like how everyone feels Gojo’s, but more raw and untamed. Whoever this child is, it is Gojo Satoru reborn again. 

Silence. Silence is what took the Gojo estate into a chokehold as the maids finish bathing the child and then put him in a spare bedroom a good distance away from yours. The maids must think you resent him. 

Satoru pretends like everything is the same as if the boy had been there since the beginning. During the first night, you watch with a blank face as the cake you've baked for him is eaten by the child. Neither the boy nor Satoru expresses their gratitude towards you. You doubt they even know you baked it.

To his credit, Satoru had treated the child better than you had expected. He is blossoming into fatherhood, you realize and you feel the rage and anger burn in your stomach.

He pats the boy's head and messes his hair, before pointing to his own messy mane exclaiming, "See? We match!"

Satoru had tried to include you in conversations with the boy, even daring to seat him on his right at meals. Satoru would blab after seeing the child gobble mochi. "Mochi is Y/N's favorite too!" He turns to look at you with a bright smile. "Right, Y/N?"

You want to point out that the boy had gobbled everything served to him, but you just give a brief nod.

At night, you sleep like a log- rigid, straight, and quiet. Satoru, on the other hand, remains comfortable, snoozing the day's exhaustion behind him.

Tonight will be the same as it has been for the past few weeks. You stare at yourself in the mirror of your vanity, wondering if your reflection is the perfect example of a foolish woman. How stupid of you to think he was different.

There was nothing but quiet as you prepare yourself to sleep, brushing your hair quietly. You hear the door creak but you do not turn and greet him with a smile like you used to.

“I expected you to be more emotional about this,” came Satoru's words beside you. Me too, you want to reply but held your mouth shut.

You had expected yourself to scream, and let your anger flow through your voice. You wanted to cry until your tears were dry and there wasn't any left. Neither you nor Satoru would be surprised if you use your technique against him in a fit of fury, and if you truly knew your husband, you know he'd take your anger like it was penance. You want to be the fire that burns him badly. But you did none of those.

You are as cold as their blue eyes. You are quiet.

You continue to brush your hair.

"Do you want me to get rid of him?" offers Satoru. "Just say the word, and I will."

You blink in surprise. You meet his eyes in the mirror. Satoru looks nonchalant in his posture with his hands in his pockets. But the fact that his glasses were nowhere to be seen tells you he is not joking.

Your ears recall the promise he made months ago. My wife, my equal. A promise to try, to try to be happy to spite everyone who was determined to make your lives miserable. 

The sudden exhaustion hit you, your shoulders slumping from your previous postures. You lean back, letting your nape rest on the back of the chair. You stare at the ceiling, your head forbidding you to forget how the child looked like. White hair. Blue eyes. You hear Satoru sigh somewhere near you. You hear his footsteps come. From your peripheral, you see his figure beside you. A feather-like hesitant hand touches your shoulder. “I was not unfaithful to you.”

Satoru moves to kneel in front of your sitting figure. He reaches out to your head, and touches his forehead against yours. You find yourself looking up at his eyes, the same shade of eyes that he shares with the child. His hands cradle your face, desperate for you to believe him. “Please. Please, Y/N.”

You remain silent. 

“You’re the only one I have left, Y/N, please.” He begs. There are tears threatening to spill down to his pretty face, and you find some sick satisfaction in them.

That is not true. Your husband has his clan, his estate servants, his high school friends, and his teachers. It is you that has no one but him. By your culture’s traditions, you do not belong to your clan anymore. You know that some elders have begun to doubt their choice in choosing you as the wife of Gojo Satoru with the obvious lack of children, but with the sudden appearance of Gojo-sama’s bastard child, they might annul your marriage by force- or, god forbid, cast you aside for another, more fertile woman.

You do not wish to share your thoughts, but your husband grips your head so desperately. You have made a god beg.

“I know.” You say. The child may be young, but he was old enough to walk and talk small phrases on his own. He must be at least two years old. The child is older than your marriage.

His shoulders immediately drop in relief before quickly detangling himself from you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He slides his head to hide in your neck and like instinct, you welcome him wrapping your hands around his waist.

"Where would you leave him?" You manage to ask, still not believing his offer.

"The cabin," he says. You can see the cracks on your husband now. You spot his hand making a fist inside his pockets, like it pains him to speak. “The one by Nagasaki, remember? I’ll send a maid and give him money every month. We can send him right now. The maids will not say anything outside the estate, not if I threaten to chop their tongues off. We can send him off with a caretaker to a cabin somewhere and leave him there. I- I can visit him a few times a year- just to make sure he’s fine.”

You blink. You did not expect Satoru to offer that. You let the fantasy linger in your head. You imagine the boy’s life so far- abandoned by his mother and unknown by his father. Children do not understand things the way older people do, so it is up to the adults to help and explain certain things. But he has not had an adult in his life before. Would you be happy if you were left alone in the cabin in the middle of the woods with no one but a caretaker for company? Better yet- will the caretaker even stay to care for him without anyone around?

That sounds incredibly lonely, you realize. The premise sounds all too familiar to you- an empty house with no one but servants. But this boy will only get one.

He needs people to protect him, but you are unsure if you’d like to. Your instincts tell you to agree, get rid of the boy before he becomes more of a threat.

“Satoru,��� you say slowly, thinking of your next words carefully. “He is just child. He is no danger to me.”

You hold your breath, suprised to hear the words out of your mouth. From your lap, Satoru holds your gaze- piercing eyes trying to read your mind. If he caught your lie he does not show it.

"Are you sure?"

No. "Yes."

-

Hiroki. Satoru had names him Gojo Hiroki.

He spends most of his days inside the estate surrounded by maids or inside his room playing with the toys you off-handedly ordered the day after he arrived. The maids gush about him already, the older ones excitedly murmuring how the little lord acts so much like your husband as a child. You would be a fool not to agree.

Hiroki runs barefoot through the estate, tracking mud on precious tatami floors before a servant finally catches him. He likes people, likes the maids and the servants, and thus has migrated to the kitchen a few weeks after his arrival like he was addicted to places were people are the most. He draws. He draws so much it’s almost ridiculous. You could have a library full of childish scribbles.

Like your husband, he devours his dessert the best before any dish. He eats mochi, ice cream, cookies and whatever sweets there are on the table like it was his last meal. You recall one of the maids gasp as a drop of cream lands on your cheek when he slammed his fork in his cake. 

Satoru is free in his affection for the boy, unexpectedly flourishing in fatherhood. He remains firm in his belief that children should be children and makes an effort to see Hiroki out. Satoru becomes known to sneak the child away from the estate to parks, to mini-vacations you begrudgingly join after Satoru’s incessant pestering. And of course- school. Hiroki made history once again when Satoru announced his decision to enroll Hiroki in a totally normal, public Japanese preschool.

You realize that Satoru was meant to be a father. And one good one at that. It brings you comfort that any children that he is at least good to his son after he confessed his plan to be a teacher after graduation.

Tokyo’s jujutsu highschool would be blessed with his presence, thought one of Satoru’s female seniors would disagree.

“Yo, Y/N-chan,” came a voice.

You twist your body over to the source of the voice, and your face lights up at the sight of a familiar face. “Getou-san!”

If Satoru's presence is an overwhelming force, making everyone and everything bow to him as if he is god, Getou is a dark, uneasy, slinking feeling. His cat-like features morph into a happy expression with a polite smile on his lips.

“Is there a mission today?” You ask as Getou comes nearer. Satoru would try his best to keep any of his classmates away from his estate, but there is nothing he can hide from Getou and Shoko. "Can I come?"

After you had let slip that you wanted to become a licensed sorcerer, Satoru had made it a habit to sneak you into some missions with Getou. You had fretted about the technical legalities and questioned the safety of the public when an inexperienced sorcerer like you enter the battlefield but Satoru merely shrugged and simply gestured to his best friend. We're the strongest!

Getou leans his shoulder on the wall. "Nope, not this one Y/N."

“I see,” you say, failing to hide your disappointment. Sometimes you wonder why you enjoy the missions so much. Was it the thrill of doing something you never would? Perhaps it was the freedom of it all, unleashing your power to poor curses who quiver beneath your feet?

Your ears perked at a familiar high pitched laugh, and your eyes immediately lock to the window where Hiroki soon runs across. He has dried soil on his feet. His pale hair is slicked back with sweat and it glistens against the sun like snow.

A maid forces a laugh in panic as she tries to catch him with his shoes on one hand.

Away from him. That’s why you enjoy it.

Getou follows your line of sight. “How is he?”

You glare at him. “How would I know?”

Everyone knows that Hiroki is a taboo topic if it’s within your earshot, lest they want the you in a foul mood. But Getou does not shy away from his question and only raises an eyebrow, calling your bluff.

“You’re telling me you do not know your own household?”

“The garden is his place,” you sigh., and admitting it felt like defeat. “He likes the grass on his feet and likes big spaces. He gets angsty when a room is too small.”

“Mmhm,” Getou agrees. “Did you know Satoru plans to enroll him in a daycare?”

Your eyes widen in horror. “In a- what?” You shriek. “He has a dozen of servants here willing to serve him-! Does he even realize the risk he’s putting the boy in? Assassins, curses, cursed users…” you trail off, remembering your own childhood. It was strange to be surrounded by servants but feeling so alone at the same time. “I see.” A daycare meant potential friends, friends that you never got to have. “Does…does the boy like it at least?”

“Me?” Getou barks out a surprised laugh. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

You glare at him. Getou meets your gaze unapologetically, almost as if he was challenging you. Finally, he sighs. “Have you ever talked to him at least?”

You roll your eyes. Your sharp tone echoes around the room. “And why would I do that? He is no concern to me.”

"He needs you."

"He does not need me," you snap, suddenly impatient for Satoru to come out of wherever he’s hiding so Getou and him can go. “He will resent me when he’s older, I know it.”

You have seen this same scene over and over again. Children and the wife of the husband do not get along. Both suffer at the existence of the other. This is the fate that Satoru had subjected you to. This is the fate you have set upon yourself when you refused to send him away. You wonder if your kindness will cost you one day.

“Well,” Getou shrugged nonchalantly. “You haven’t given him any reason to like you either.”

You opened your mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by Satoru.

“Getouu,” he whined, comically trudging towards his best friend with a hunched back. “Why are you so early?”

You see Getou open his mouth to reply, but you are lost in your head. You watch Getou ignore Satoru’s childish gimmicks, already dragging him out of the room and towards the door. You feel Satoru kiss your cheek before waving goodbye, but your head was in a daze mindlessly repeating Getou’s words. You feel shiver creep down your spine before shifting your gaze towards the garden where Hiroki’s presence was last.

-

thank you so much for reading guys! i’d love to hear all criticisms and suggestions for this universe <33 please lmk through comments :>

here’s my masterlist

[laurenairay]

Baking traditions - Q.Hughes

Summary: Noticing that you’re homesick, Quinn makes sure to include some of your autumn traditions.

The second of my Autumn & Halloween blurbs! How could I resist this slice of domestic life with Quinn?

Word Count: 778 words

Tagging: @fallinallincurls @starshine-hockey-girl @lam-ila @kurlyteuvo @tonyspep

@cixrosie

~

“Babe? What’s all this?”

When you’d gotten home from work that evening, you hadn’t expected your kitchen counters to be covered with ingredients.

Your boyfriend just smiled a little sheepishly, but shrugged innocently.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Quinn said simply.

“When congratulations, I’m surprised,” you mused.

Quinn just laughed, cheeks a little pink with blush as he leaned down to kiss you in greeting.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey yourself,” you murmured back.

He smiled sweetly, pecking your lips in another kiss before standing upright again.

“I know you’ve been missing home…”

Well that was blunt. Quinn wasn’t wrong though. You’d moved to Vancouver to live with Quinn and take your relationship to the next level only six months ago – and while everything had been fairytale-levels of amazing, that didn’t mean there weren’t stumbling blocks. Like your homesickness, that you’d thought you’d done a good job of hiding.

“…and I just wanted to do something to cheer you up. I called your mom, and she said that you love baking in the Autumn, like all the spices and stuff are your favourite, so I thought maybe we could bake together?”

His voice trailed off in a hopeful embarrassment, but it was all you could do not to cry. This man. How were you gifted a man like this? Quinn noticed the tears in your eyes and immediately groaned.

“You hate it. This is making your homesickness even worse. I’m so dumb, I’m sorry, I-”

“Quinn, no, you’re not dumb at all. You’re the sweetest man ever. I love this idea,” you interrupted, laughing a little watery with a big smile.

The relief that spread across his face was immediate and dramatic.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really really,” you nodded, “What are we making?”

“I thought we’d try something easy? Chocolate chip pumpkin banana bread?” he said, “I found a recipe online that looked okay and I double checked with your mom too.”

So sweet.

“That sounds amazing, Quinn. Are we baking now?”

“It takes an hour to bake in the oven so I figured we could order take out now and eat dinner while we wait for the banana bread to cook?” he suggested.

Your man with a plan.

“That sounds great to me, baby, thank you. I’ll get changed out of my work clothes and we can start?”

“I’ll order dinner while you get changed,” he added, smiling.

In no time at all you were back in the kitchen in comfy sweats and an old t-shirt, take-out order being processed, while Quinn scrolled through his ipad for the recipe he saved.

“Okay, so first off, we’ve got to mash all these bananas. Shall I do that while you measure out the dry ingredients?”

You nodded, smiling up at him as you reached for a mixing bowl he’d already put on the kitchen counter. You whisked together the flour, pumpkin pie spice, cinnamon, dark chocolate chips, baking soda, baking powder & salt, and after mashing the bananas, in a separate mixing bowl Quinn whisked together the oil, sugars, eggs & vanilla extract until no lumps remained.

“That’s lump free, right?” he frowned, peering down into his bowl.

You glanced over and nodded. “Yeah that looks great baby.”

Quinn beamed back at you.

“Now we’ve just to combine the bananas into my bowl with a cup of pumpkin puree, before carefully stirring your dry ingredients mix into my bowl too,” he explained.

Somehow the two of you managed all of that without making too much mess.

“Last step is pouring it into the lined loaf cake tin and baking it for an hour. I already pre-heated the oven so we should be good to go?”

After you’d combined all the ingredients, Quinn’s face was as serious as you’d ever seen it as he carefully carried the loaf tin over to your oven, and you tried to hide your smile as you opened the oven for him.

He really cared, didn’t he? He cared so much.

“I’ll set a timer for an hour. I don’t want it to get burnt,” he frowned.

“It’s going to be amazing, I already know,” you said softly, resting a hand on his chest.

His frown softened to a sweet smile. “I just want this to be good for you.”

“The fact that we did this together is what made this good for me. The cake itself is an added bonus,” you said, smiling up at him.

A light blush spread across his cheeks and he nodded, sliding his arms around your waist to hold you closer to him.

“As long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said warmly.

“With you, how can I not be?”

[tuquidflamingo]

🦩In the Donquijote family's house, Spanish traditions are alive and well, and on Three Kings' Day, it’s time for Roscón de Reyes 👑👑👑!!!!! Doffy has found the King and is about to be crowned😌👑🙌. Poor Rosi just bit into the bean 🫘🥲

In Spain, the Roscón de Reyes is a traditional cake enjoyed on Three Kings' Day 👑👑👑. Made with sweet brioche dough flavored with orange blossom water, it’s decorated with colorful candied fruits and often filled with whipped cream, almond paste, or similar fillings. Hidden inside are two surprises: a figurine, symbolizing one of the Three Wise Men, and a dry broad bean. Tradition says the person who finds the figurine is crowned, while the one who gets the bean has to pay for the roscón 😅

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Cake Terminology

IN AMERICAN ENGLISH...

Cake - is anything, large or small, filled or unfilled, made from a sweet batter, whether dense or light

IN THE UK...

A cake - what Americans might call a “plain cake”.

It usually refers to a dense baked good such as Madeira cake, similar to what Americans might call a pound cake, or to a fruit-laden Christmas cake (U.S. fruitcake).

A layer cake - referred to as a “sandwich sponge,” “sandwich,” or by the French term gâteau.

IN FRANCE...

Le cake - a loaf-shaped pound cake often enriched with dried or candied fruits.

Lately, the French have begun to apply the term to any loafshaped, flour-based baked goods; one result is le cake salé (salted cake), a dense savory cake.

Delicate layer cakes with rich or soft fillings are also referred to as entremets (desserts).

A layer cake can be a gâteau in France as well as in the United Kingdom, though the same term may also refer to desserts made from pastry doughs, such as:

Almond-filled gâteau des rois - (kings cake or Twelfth Night cake) made from puff pastry

Gâteau Basque - made from a sweet pastry dough

Gâteau Saint Honoré - made from unsweetened pastry dough or puff pastry

Pâte à choux - cream puff pastry

IN GERMAN-SPEAKING COUNTRIES...

Terminology mostly follows classic South German nomenclature.

Plain cakes, those embellished with fresh fruit, or those made from yeast-leavened doughs are referred to as Kuchen.

Layer cakes and some rich cakes made from pastry doughs are called Torten, as in:

Punschtorte, layers of sponge cake moistened with rum punch and filled with apricot jam;

Sachertorte, a rich chocolate cake; and

Linzertorte, a dense, jam-filled cake; halfway between a cake and a pastry.

A Torte is sometimes mistakenly thought to be a cake or cake layer made without flour, probably because the Viennese baking tradition often uses ground nuts either alone or combined with flour or dry breadcrumbs for Tortenboden or cake layers.

IN ITALY...

Italian bakers solve the problem by referring to most cakes, as well as to pies and tarts, as torte.

An Italian torta may be either a layer cake, as in:

torta bignè (a cream-filled layer cake covered with tiny unfilled cream puffs or bignè), or

torta di mandorle (an unfilled, denser cake such as an almond pound cake).

torta rustica - A torta can refer to a savory pie

torta di mele - or a sweet pie

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[buffetlicious]

The Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋节), a Chinese celebratory season observed by many East and Southeast Asians, has begun. Held on the 15th day of the eighth lunar month, which is in the middle of autumn, the festival marks the end of the season’s harvest and is a time to appreciate the moon at its fullest and brightest. Besides feasting eyes on the moon and lanterns of different shapes and sizes, Mooncakes (月饼), a rich pastry with all sorts of fillings, are undoubtedly the main highlight of the festival and are traditionally shared among family and friends.

The Cantonese Mooncake (广式月饼) is the most commonly found traditional mooncake in Singapore. Its fillings consist of lotus seed or red bean paste and usually include one, two or four salted duck egg yolks. Many would also be familiar with the snow skin variant that was created in Hong Kong in the 1960s as a healthier alternative to traditional baked mooncakes. The fillings and a ball of dough are traditionally pressed into a wooden mould, which embosses intricate wordings of the pastry shop’s name or stuffing on top of the pastry.

A mooncake with various flavours such as rich, savoury-sweet and peppery, the Hainanese Mooncake (海南月饼), also known as Su Yan Bing (酥盐饼) is traditionally filled with ingredients such as fried shallots, lard, salt, white pepper, rose-flavoured white sugar, sesame seeds, melon seeds and dried wild tangerine skin peel. The filling is encased in a thin crust made with flour, salt and lard.

The Hakka Mooncake (客家月饼) is also called Yu Gao (月糕) and is a flat, snow-white disc that is typically made with cooked glutinous rice flour and sugar, giving it a crumbly and powdery texture. It is usually embellished with more intricate designs, often with animals and flowers. Although it doesn’t usually contain any fillings, some come with candied winter melon, desiccated coconut and sesame seeds mixed with glutinous rice flour, sugar, margarine and water.

Easily distinguishable by the red stamp of Chinese characters on the top of the crust and its white disc-shaped pastry which resembles a bright moon, the Hokkien Mooncake (福建月饼) consists of a dry and sweet filling that is made of candied winter melon, tangerine peel, melon seeds, sugar, and cooked with lard or peanut oil. A less common type is a savoury version with minced meat filling. Once known as Scholar Cakes (状元糕), they were given to those who took part in the Imperial examinations. Today, it is given as a symbol of good luck to those who are about to sit for their exams.

Many would be familiar with the Teochew Mooncakes (潮州月饼). It has a crispy, spiral-layered crust that crumbles easily. It originated from the Chaoshan (潮汕) area in Guangdong Province and typically consists of yam paste and a salted duck egg yolk. Other traditional versions of the Teochew mooncake are still made by old school bakeries in Singapore. For example, La Bia (朥饼 or lard biscuit), where ‘La’ refers to pork oil, has a thinner, flaky crust with a thick mung bean or red bean filling. There are also alternative fillings including red bean, mung bean or lotus seed paste. There is also a steamed version of the typically baked Teochew mooncake, called La Gao (朥糕). It can either be served plain or with a mung bean filling.

A Snow Skin Mooncake (冰皮月饼) variant was created in Hong Kong in the 1960s as a healthier alternative to traditional baked mooncakes. Similar to mochi, its crust is made of glutinous rice flour and varies in colour, based on the flavours used. And unlike traditional mooncakes, these are best served cold!

Mooncake information and drawings courtesy of Ministry of Culture, Community and Youth.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Angeal gets a cooking show of his dreams

*Angeal is cooking vegetable stew*

Angeal: Now that we're done chopping the vegetables, I'll have my assistant bring in the meat we'll be using.

*Sephiroth walks out carrying potatoes*

Angeal: Where's the chocobo meat?

Sephiroth: Chocobos are beautiful, intelligent creatures who should not end up in—

Angeal: You're fired. Bring in Zack.

-

*Angeal is showing the audience the perfect cake recipe. Zack is in the background cooking chocolate sauce*

Angeal: The trick is to not use too much sugar because you want the sweetness to be just right without being overwhelming. Now, blend the butter until it's smooth and creamy...

*The entire pot catches fire. Zack tries to put it out with a kitchen towel but now that's on fire too*

Angeal: Once you have your butter and sugar mixture ready, go ahead and prepare your eggs. Make sure they're room temperature before separating the yolk....

*Cloud runs in with a fire extinguisher and tries to put it out. Doesn't work. Everything is covered in foam but still very much on fire*

Angeal: Next, you'll want to sift together your dry ingredients—flour, baking soda, and a pinch of salt—and slowly incorporate them into your wet mixture!

*Cloud slips on the foam and falls on the floor. Zack tries to help but knocks over a set of knives directly into the fire. Zack then grabs a flaming knife and stands over Cloud in the flames. Cloud is screaming*

Angeal: Finally, add in some vanilla extract for extra flavor.

*Everything is on fire. Cloud is trying to wrestle the knife away from Zack*

Angeal: I thought of adding in some mint for a fresh, cooling effect, but we don't need that! It's not like our kitchen is on fire hahahaha—WHAT THE FUCK? PUT THE KNIFE DOWN

*Sephiroth runs in front of the camera with a sign that reads "SAVE THE CHOCOBOS"*

-

*Angeal is showing the audience how to bake the perfect Banora White pie. Genesis is his assistant*

Angeal: Now, our pie will turn out exactly like this example pie I have ready here. While my assistant chops the apples, I'll start preparing the shortcrust.

Genesis: Everyone knows that Banora White Pie needs a graham cracker crust. It's the only way to properly balance the flavors.

Angeal: A traditional shortcrust is the key to a perfect texture. It holds up better and doesn’t get soggy.

Genesis: Perhaps if you knew how to bake it properly, it wouldn't get soggy. The graham cracker crust adds a dulcet sweetness that complements the Banora White apples.

Angeal: What we need is balance, not an overwhelming sugary taste. Bedsides, a graham cracker crust will fall apart on the plate.

Angeal:

Angeal: Like you.

Genesis: Angeal Hewley you take that back immediately.

Angeal: Why don't you take your graham cracker crust back to the apple farm, Genesis?

Genesis: Maybe I will! And I can bring our audience with me so they CAN FINALLY TRY A PROPER BANORA WHITE PIE.

Angeal: ARE YOU REALLY SO PETTY THAT YOU CAN'T ACCEPT THAT YOU'RE WRONG?

Genesis: WRONG? YOUR LOGIC IS A JOKE!

Angeal: SAYS THE GUY WEARING A RED LEATHER COAT IN JULY.

Genesis: SAY THAT AGAIN AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS.

Angeal: GLADLY. YOU WOULDN'T KNOW A GOOD PIE IF IT HIT YOU IN THE FACE!

*Genesis smashes the apple pie in Angeal's face*

Angeal: ........

Genesis: Ha! How's that for a pie hitting you in the face!?

Genesis:

Genesis: What are you doing with that rolling pin?

Genesis: HEY! PUT IT DOWN! HELP! THIS IS AN ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE! HE'S TRYING TO ASSASSINATE A PUBLIC FIGURE AND END LOVELESS.

*Angeal is now chasing Genesis around the kitchen using the rolling pin as a weapon*

*Sephiroth appears, holding Cloud up in front of the camera*

Cloud: ?

Sephiroth: For the modest sum of two gil, you too can rescue chocobos like this one from a grim fate.

Cloud: 💢

[odoroussavourssweet]

Perfumes for Vorkosigan Saga Characters

There are enough offhand references to fragrance in the Vorkosigan books that I strongly suspect Lois McMaster Bujold of being a perfume enthusiast. Also it's fun to imagine what the characters would wear.

Aral and Miles Vorkosigan

Miles is sometimes noted to wear a traditional masculine cologne, and he strikes me as the sort to wear the same thing his father does, as a sort of default grooming routine. You don't get much more traditional and correct than Chanel Monsieur, a mossy, bone-dry cologne/chypre hybrid.

Cordelia Vorkosigan

As the author-insert character, I think Cordelia enjoys perfume and knows exactly what she wants. I picture her in my beloved vintage Rochas Mystere, an earthy, outdoorsy, yet elegant chypre, with lots of brisk cypress and a rusty warm carnation heart to match her auburn hair.

Alys Vorpatril

Alys is a lady of a certain age with excellent taste, and therefore appreciates the formal, embellished perfection of Divine, a classical aldehydic floral weighted towards tuberose.

Ivan Vorpatril

Ivan has no taste of his own; once he got old enough to try dousing himself in body spray as a teen, his mother bought him a bottle of Divine L'Etre Aime Homme, a classically French masculine with a warm, smoky immortelle note, which sets off his darkly athletic good looks.

Elena Bothari-Jesek

Elena, I think, came to perfume later in life, finding a balm in a private feminine pleasure that wasn't part of her rigidly militaristic youth. She'd appreciate something delicate and poignant, like YSL Paris, a rose-violet powder-puff scent.

Bel Thorne

Bel was once mentioned wearing "floral perfume" to emphasize its feminine side. The adventurous Betan mercenary strikes me as a tuberose fan, and I imagine it wearing something like Frederic Malle Carnal Flower -- bold, sleek, streamlined, stylish but not too obscure. (Bel is, at heart, a bit of a normie.)

Elli Quinn

Space-station-born Elli is used to being in confined spaces with strangers, so she never wears perfume -- she even insists on unscented soaps. But she might have picked up a bottle of Etat Libre d'Orange Secretions Magnifiques as a vile practical joke (it smells, very realistically, like vomit.)

Taura

Taura's genetic enhancements gave her an exceptional sense of smell, and her lust for life and enthusiastic experiments in feminine presentation suggest she would absolutely try out perfume, but she's not analytical enough to get super into it. Somebody gives her Narciso Rodriguez For Her, a basic sweet floral musk, and she sticks with that.

Cavilo

The sociopathic mercenary Cavilo is described as wearing a very sharp green floral perfume that gives Miles allergies. I imagine this as Tom Ford Vert Boheme, a clean, contemporary take on the classic 1970s green florals, which smells exactly like a crisp green leaf before opening out into a ladylike magnolia.

Pel Navarr

The Cetagandans are perfume-lovers, so the aristocratic haut Pel would certainly wear perfume. Given her restrained, elevated tastes, I picture her in Parfums MDCI Le Cri De La Lumiere, a barely-there, sparkling-white iris-rose concoction of surpassing purity.

Lilly Durona

I have a soft spot for the Durona Group -- rogue ancap bioengineering clone family of my heart. In her artificially extended lifespan, the matriarch Lilly must have tried her hand at perfuming at some point, and probably invented a few new aromachemicals of her own. All the Durona women have flower names, and I imagine Lilly wears her namesake via something similar to Serge Lutens Un Lys, the most realistic, narcotic, honey-dripping lily scent ever.

Mark Vorkosigan

We know Mark's visual aesthetic tends towards the dark and gloomy, his gustatory tastes run towards the sweet and indulgent, and his erotic tastes are, um, both. There's only one right answer here and it's Bvlgari Black: fetishy black rubber up top, birthday-cake sweet vanilla below.

Enrique Borgos

Enrique is a nerd, and in his own way an aesthetic soul. I guarantee you he is interested in perfume, and he'd gravitate to the perfumer's perfumer, the chemist Christophe Laudamiel. He would be fascinated by the strange "neon-hologram" effect in The Zoo Spacewood.

Kareen Koudelka

Kareen's adventurous nature probably took her to try some perfumes on Beta Colony, and she'd invariably gravitate to warm, cozy ambers and gourmands. I can see her in the unpretentious burnt-caramel smell of Kerosene Broken Theories.

Ekaterin Vorsoisson

The reserved, introverted Ekaterin has "unerring taste". Which means, in an olfactory context, she's probably figured out that Liz Moores is one of the best living perfumers. I have Ekaterin pegged for an iris lover, so she wears Papillon Angelique, a delicate, rustic spring iris with subtle, velvety layers of texture.

[orchidsangel]

Recently imagined Jason and y/n, his ex, meeting again after a few years. Still obviously caring about each other. Eating cake alone at the apartment and awaiting the New Year together. Not wanting to say that this is the least lonely, however sad-looking, night they've experienced since they split up.

(jumping off a cliff bc i missed the glaring "new year" part of this and was like "i'll get to this later" so sorry beloved, also this got more angsty than i intended.)

Exes to lovers with Jason is always in the back of my mind somewhere, eating away at my sanity. Just the idea that he loved you so hard he had to let you go, knowing the life he lived wasn't suitable for you. You told him you didn't mind, that he was so important to you that you could put aside the constant worry that would sit in your stomach like a rock every time he was off being Red Hood. You said it was fine, but he saw the way bags appeared under your eyes after too many nights of staying up for him, how you forgot to eat when he went too long without contacting you, and how the tears would slip past your lashes when you were patching him up.

At the end of it all, you had begged him to stay, telling him over and over how much you loved him. It killed him to tell you that that was the reason why it was ending, because you loved him too hard, and you were neglecting yourself because of it. He was sick, wondering if he'd made the wrong decision, wondering if this would only make things worse for you. So, despite the fresh ache in his heart, he still watched out for you, determined to make sure you thrived without him, and thrive you did.

It felt like it had been ages since the last time he saw you that couldn't be mistaken for stalking. Watching you from rooftops and alleyways, rushing fights to make sure he could see if you got home safely and intervene if there were any threats. It became routine for him to hang up his helmet at night once he knew you were safe in the confines of the apartment you once shared. What wasn't routine was you knocking on his apartment door at exactly eleven forty-seven pm on New Year's Eve with a sad-looking store-bought cake in your hands and an even sadder look on your face.

"I know we're not together anymore, but…"

Splitting a whole cake between the two of you on New Year's Eve instead of having a typical dinner had been your tradition for years. Jason took it very seriously, planning the cake in advance for weeks, testing different flavors, even going as far as calling you once in the middle of a fight, asking if you preferred chantilly or sponge. It was stupid to most people you told, but to you and Jason, it was the perfect way to end the year. Now, you stand before him, holding a cake that could never compare to the decadent black forest cake he had made the last time you'd spent New Year's together.

You look down at the cake and then back up at him, the familiar gleam of water in your eyes. He takes the container in one hand and uses the other to pull the door open more so you can come in. It had been a while since you'd been there last, but everything was the same. A wall with an extensive collection of weapons, a stack of books that only collected dust when he was gone for long periods of time, and a framed picture of Jason and Bruce from his robin days.

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"Lucky guess."

Not a lucky guess, the first place you'd told him you loved him.

He roots around a drawer, pulling out two forks and handing one to you. Silence hangs in the air, several year's worth of unspoken feelings lingering with nowhere to go but up. he pops the lid off the container and gestures for you to take the first bite, another tradition that came with his hours of cake-making; he'd always insist on you having the first taste so you could give feedback and you only ever had positive things to say. Now, the weak taste of vanilla paired with a dry crumb, and your mouth turns downward into a frown.

"I don't think it's that bad."

"You'll eat anything."

"True."

No, it wasn't that bad. In fact, before you'd met Jason, this was something you probably would've treated yourself to when life decided to be good to you, but he had spoiled you, given you so much more than you even knew was out there, and it wasn't all material.

Three minutes to New Year's now, and approximately six bites taken out of the cake, five from Jason, and you're ready to part ways again with you leaving him this time. There's still time to make a run for it and ring in the new year without the baggage of your ex hanging over you; there's still time to pretend your world wasn't shattered when he left.

"Why are you here? Why not spend New Year's with your friends?"

"Friends?"

"The people I always see you with when I-"

"Watch me?"

"Am on patrol."

"Right."

"Why aren't you with them?"

"Not friends, coworkers."

"You're with them all the time."

"Workplace comradery."

"So, friends."

Thirty seconds now, and the words you still haven't said are on the tip of your tongue and in the back of your mind, egging you on to admit the feelings you've been sitting on for what feels like forever. He beats you to it.

"Please come back to me."

"I'm not the one who left."

Fireworks go off outside, signifying the beginning of a new year, and you and Jason stand across from each other. Physically, only the kitchen island stands between you two, but emotionally, you're still miles apart. You can't hear in his words how much he needs you back in his life, how hard it is for him every night to not climb in through your window and find his spot in the bed you'd shared like he'd done so many times before; and he can't hear in your words how the wound he left in your heart never healed, how it never even started to, and how through him leaving, you found out that time doesn't heal all things.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Hail, Commander [Asgard!Loki x Fem.Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki returns from war, and certain traditions must be upheld. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language. Salirophilia (dirty Loki) Exhibitionism. Descriptions of violence/blood. (w/c 1.6k)

The clang of armoured spears vibrated the stone beneath your feet. Once. Twice. Three times.

You drew your gaze away from the twinkling lights of Asgard stretched below the balustrade, turning in a hurried curtsey as the returning commander approached. Nerves twisted in your stomach, though you had no idea why.

It was always thus when Loki returned from war.

He strode majestically through the towering columns, removing his horned helmet as he went. The clanking sound of the guards standing to attention in sequence as he moved past them broke the evening stillness, metal on metal clanging. It made your thighs squeeze together beneath the long skirts covering them.

His leather cape billowed theatrically behind his towering form, the fine silk lining catching the transient flicker of a hundred torches lighting his path. He shook his hair, heavy with the weight of battle fought. And won. It had been weeks since the younger prince had stalked the halls, and tonight he was on the hunt.

Reverently, you lowered your gaze, each purposeful stride of his muscled legs moving in your direction with predatory singularity. His usual flawless fairness was marred with ash and dark stains, visible on the gold of his armour even in the moonlight.

He hasn’t even bathed, you thought, a thrill racing in waves through your blood. The slap of his boots against the ground echoed in the silent night, becoming louder before stopping abruptly. You could smell the heat emanating from him; lustful intentions oozing from beneath war-ravaged leathers. The lingering smell of stale copper and sweat crawled up your nostrils.

Loki's cape swirled around his ankles in your line of vision, settling in shredded folds.

“Look at me.” he growled, lifting your chin with one curled finger. His thumb danced across your bottom lip, dragging the plump down.

For the first time in weeks, you saw his face; menacingly beautiful under starlight. His eyes were bright, the whites contrasting ethereally against layers of blood and soot smeared across his brow, his cheekbones, his throat.

“My Prince.” you greeted huskily. Loki gave a small nod in response. “You have been victorious, then?” you coyed, feeling your heart beat faster as a smile curled at his dry lips. “Could you ever doubt me, precious one?” he murmured, cupping your cheekbone. “I will always arrive victorious to you. Victorious for you.”

He flipped the edges of the cape backwards, before pressing you against the stone balustrade in a crushing kiss. His lips tasted like smoke and metal; the sharp tang of old copper springing to life on your searching tongue.

Loki groaned as your fingers caught on the lengths of his hair, dragging through the residue of crusted blood and sweat. His head fell back as you pressed closer to his chest, a mischievous palm rubbing over his stirring manhood.

"My filthy soldier..." you muttered darkly, observing the telling bob of his Adam’s apple cast in murky shadow.

The veins in his neck pulsed, thick ropes of muscle standing proud against the cake of grime which coated them. "Filthy Prince, if you please..." he goaded through shallow breaths. “You may be my betrothed, but I am still your superior.”

You stifled a giggle, feeling his cock inflate rapidly beneath layers of heavy leather as you grasped shamelessly at his hips, tugging at buckles and straps that hung sluttishly from every angle. Gods, how you had missed him. You gyrated firmly against his centre. Just once.

Loki's shoulders flexed beneath the heavy armour, head tilting with a hard glint to his features. With a stomach dropping pulse, you realised that look would have been the last thing his enemies ever saw.

"Tread carefully love..." he whispered menacingly, a tingle of anticipation rolling up your spine as a knowing smirk cracked the dried dirt by his dimples. His eyebrow cocked, a hand you knew would leave a soiled trail down the fine silk of your dress sliding to rest on your lower back. "I am not in a merciful mood."

You bit your lip, watching Loki break into a mischievous smile. His teeth were blindingly bright against the stains streaked on his skin, layered effects of deadly strikes and blows and carnage mapped in each square inch of his face. “Do you see them?” he purred, tilting his head. You shivered, casting a glance to the dozens of Asgardian palace guards lined up along the promenade to the great hall; their stares fixed ahead. “They have orders to stay at their post all night.” he murmured.

“Your father has organised a feast for your glorious return…” you hummed, as Loki hoisted you to sit atop the balustrade with a soft thump. Loki pursed his lips knowingly, a playful twang in his voice. “And I have still yet to bathe...as you may have noticed.”

He placed a lingering kiss in the curve of your neck, the resulting groan of desperation from your parted lips making him chuckle against the skin.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he murmured, kissing messily up your heated neck as he spread your legs. You squirmed on the wide stone balcony, tightening your knees against his hips. His mud-roughed cheek grazed yours, warm breath making you shiver against the evening chill. “Do you have the strength to wait, love?”

“No…” you whispered shakily, letting your fingers unclasp the buckle slung over his chest. It loosened the front panel of his leather armour, falling open. Your hands dove inside, kissing him like he had returned from the dead. Perhaps he had.

“Good.” he growled, whipping the sides of his leather battle garb around your widened thighs. Concealed fingers skimmed ribbons of silk up your legs, the fabric falling beneath his touch like enemies beneath his sword. Pushing it around your hips, he inhaled the musk of hot, feminine arousal rising between your bodies; sweet against the copper tang of his filth.

“You know not what I have done for this moment, love.” he muttered, combing a dirt laden hand through your hair. “The chaos I have wrought.”

Your back arched, feeling his wetted cock press against your slit; desperate and fierce. The stone of the balustrade grated against your ass as you shifted towards him, urging him to fill you with the closeness you missed. To complete you again.

“Loki…” you mewled pleadingly as a smirk tugged his cracked lips. It was tradition, that he would tell you his tales. Loki’s return wouldn’t be the same without them.

“I slaughtered legions, each demon falling to my feet with a final wail of hopeless anguish…” he whispered, nudging the leaking tip against your entrance. Your hips bucked upwards, urging him on.

“Their blood ran in rivers, darling. You should have seen it, the pathetic fear in their eyes before they felt the quick of my blade slice across their throat. F-fuck...” he groaned, breaching you with a low, guttural sigh.

Loki’s fingers grasped around your thighs, tugging you down his cock. The scrape of the balustrade stone stung the curves of your flesh, any discomfort obliterated by the exquisite sensation of his manhood setting every nerve of pleasure alight. His metal wrist-guards pressed against the flat of your thighs as he rocked your hips, lost in the theatrics of his arousal.

“We tore t-through their defences…” he gasped, delivering small thrusts with aching precision. “It was brutal. Messy. We...g-gods...o-obliter-rated...their...uhhh...h-hope-”

“-More, Loki…” you keened in his ear, fingernails scraping down his shoulders beneath the overcoat as your head fell back. The god chuckled as he enveloped you, the cape like wings covering your modesty as he fucked you like a common whore, perched upon the balustrade.

The angle of his hips was perfect, each roll of them edging you closer to inevitable orgasm as a steady beat of drums began to pepper the air. The Procession, you realised; each beat of percussion seeming to tremble the very breath from your body.

“Their army p-parted like leaves...scattered, sand in the wind before our mighty f-force.” he panted, edging deeper into your wet heat. Every drag of his heavy cock was tortuously slow, melting you from the inside out as he tried to maintain some element of subtlety. Your knees rose against his ribs, letting him lean you back over the balustrade.

“So much destruction, love.” he murmured, as firelight from the wall torches flickered tepid warmth behind his head. “So much power your god held in his hands. All for you.” The streets were full tonight, candles held by citizens setting the winding path to the palace alight in grateful homage. A booming, solitary voice heralded from below, soaring to the heavens. "Hail, the victorious dead." The familiar mantra vibrated around Asgard's high towers, washing over the muted hiss of the slow moving crowd walking the cobbled streets. Hail, the ghostly refrain of a thousand souls echoed in response. "Hail, our glorious commander." the voice sang solemnly; the ceremonial vindication making Loki delve further into your cunt with a shuddering sigh. Hail, Commander. Hail. Your voice joined the reverent murmurs of gratitude crashing against the walls of the palace like a wave, hundreds of feet below. Each syllable from your lips was a lullaby, whispered wetly against your commander's skin.

You clenched, hearing him hiss beneath the veil of tangled, filthy hair. He muttered ancient curses, pelvis grinding against your clit as he rocked you towards the precipice.

“How many, Loki…?” you groaned, feeling his balls tighten against your slick sex. He let out a growl, scraping his teeth down your cheek with a feral moan. “Thousands, my love." he purred darkly. "Dead at my feet.”

With a strangled gasp, you came around him; leaning into his war-soaked leathers to stifle the scream clawing in your throat. You had no idea how clandestine your fucking truly was, but whatever the guards thought they were seeing out the corner of their eye - you did not intend to confirm it.

“They cried for m-mercy at the end.” Loki gasped, tacky curls falling against his brow as he watched himself sink inside your leaking pussy, still quivering with aftershock. “Their cries...uhh..that’s it, f-fuck, d-darling...their cries went unanswered.”

Loki’s breath hitched at his own words, a wavering moan snaking past his lips as a low hiss. The god's carved jaw pointed to the stars, clenching as he approached climax with a dirty growl rolling in his chest.

“No mercy.” you whispered against his cheek, concealing another moan in his shoulder as he fucked you to the slow beat of drums in the distance.

“No mercy.” he echoed quietly, before fastening his mouth to yours.

Continued in The Feast

A/N: @mischief2sarawr I hope this somewhat satisfied your mighty balustrade related need. Tags @gigglingtigger @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @loopsisloops @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @smolvenger @liminalpebble @psychospore @littlespaceyelf @lokischambermaid @praq123 @lokisgoodboy

[feyburner]

I do not see the chocolate velvet cake recipe in tags :(

Oh weird. Well now it will be.

CHOCOLATE VELVET CAKE

INGREDIENTS

3/4 cup (60g) cocoa powder (ideally Dutch-processed)

1 cup (240g) freshly brewed hot coffee

2 cups (240g) AP flour

1 cup (200g) white sugar

1 cup (200g) brown sugar, packed

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp kosher salt

1 cup (200g) oil

1 cup (227g) buttermilk (1 cup milk + 1 Tbsp white or apple cider vinegar, stir together and let curdle 10 minutes)

1 Tbsp white or apple cider vinegar

2 eggs

1 Tbsp vanilla

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 350°. Grease 2 x 8-9” cake pans and line with parchment paper rounds.

2. Bloom cocoa: Measure cocoa into a large liquid measuring cup (for easy pouring later). Add 1 cup (pre-measured) hot coffee in increments, whisking in between, until mixture is smooth. **If you add coffee all at once you’ll get lumps. Add a little, whisk to a smooth paste, then add the rest.

3. Sift together flour, sugars, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl (or bowl of stand mixer). **Sifting matters here. The final batter is very thin and if you don’t sift you may get lumps of flour.

4. In a separate bowl, whisk together oil, buttermilk, eggs, and vanilla until smooth. Whisk in coffee-cocoa mixture until incorporated.

5. Pour wet ingredients into dry and fold with a rubber spatula until just combined, scraping bottom and sides of bowl to catch any dry pockets. Do not overmix. Batter will be thin.

6. Divide batter evenly between cake pans. Bake 30-40 minutes until a knife inserted in the center comes out moist but clean. Start checking at 30 minutes to avoid overbaking.

7. Cool in pans 15 minutes (no longer), then turn onto a wire rack to finish cooling. Let cool completely (1-2 hours) before frosting.

NOTES

- Cocoa: Dutch-process cocoa powder = the ultimate dark-as-night chocolate cake, but natural cocoa powder works just as well.

- Coffee: Can use 1 cup boiling water + 1 Tbsp instant coffee or 1 tsp instant espresso, or just 1 cup boiling water in a pinch.

- Vinegar: Buttermilk + extra 1 Tbsp vinegar tenderizes gluten to create the velvety texture and enhances the cocoa color and flavor, same as in traditional red velvet cakes.

[fairielux]

i'm not finished with the second scene yet, but it IS going well and it's getting late too so here is your second snippet from the festive-ish domestic, restaurant owner landoscar fic!

please please please let me know what you think, i love the feedback. i still have no clue when this is gonna be done or how long it'll end up being, i'm just along for the ride cause this fic is writing itself.

i hope you enjoy!

"Service runs smooth, sparing Lando any additional headaches. By the time they see the last guest out, Lando is all but ready to collapse. He can't yet though so he cycles through their routine, closing the restaurant, checking everything's in place for tomorrow, and stacking up the next set of special menus by the waiters' desk. Only after does he head to the kitchen to check how Oscar's going with his part of the cleanup. Usually, the chefs would leave the clean up to their cooks, but Oscar likes his station to be in a particular way, he rarely lets anyone help him with prep or cleanup. So he stays and does it himself - it's just another thing Lando adores about him.

As he enters the kitchen, he is greeted by a warm plate and a tired looking Yuki.

"I know you didn't have a break" he says as he shoves the plate into Lando's hand "and you might be the boss but you still need to eat" he finishes before heading to the changing rooms. Lando can't even utter a thanks, his head chef is gone so quick.

The smell of Yuki's warm food pulls a rumble from his stomach, he was right, Lando did forget to take a break. He does it more often than he likes to admit, and he appreciates how his staff - his friends - make sure to look out for him. He sets the plate down on the service counter and grabs a freshly washed fork from the drying rack. Yuki made him the usual plate of tomato and mascarpone pasta, but it might as well be the best dish he's ever had. Within minutes the pasta is all gone and his plate is cleaned and put away, so with his fork still in hand he makes his way to the back of the kitchen, where he suspects Oscar may be. His husband is nowhere to be seen when he gets to his station however, the only thing that greets him is a small plate with a single slice of cheesecake on it that Oscar left for him. They have a long running tradition of this - Oscar leaving sweet treats for Lando - that started way before they had their restaurant, but Oscar still kept it going after all these years and Lando wouldn't have it any other way. He takes a careful look at the slice before digging in - him and Oscar have this ongoing game where Lando tries to guess the flavours Oscar has packed into his gift sweet of the day - the cream is light and velvety, the biscuit is crunchy and he is flooded with the flavours of Christmas. His husband has managed to make christmas into a cheesecake, he thinks. He is on his third bite - still trying to pinpoint exactly what festive spices Oscar has used in the cream - when he hears a set of heavy boots on the kitchen tiles.

"Any idea on what cheesecake it is yet?" Oscar asks, with a glimmer in his eyes. He enjoys their little guessing game as much as Lando, if not more. The man is insanely competitive, though Lando can't say shit, he is even worse at times.

"Well, if my tastebuds don't deceive me, you've made the base from crushed gingerbread" he states, quite proud of himself and he immediately knows he is right when he sees Oscar's smile widen. "and then you called up Santa and asked him to give you some kind of Christmas-essence that you cooked into the cream." His conclusion has Oscar folding in half, Lando thinks that isn't quite enough yet, so he keeps going. "Or maybe you've just poured the entire spice cabinet into the cream and kept adding nutmeg until it magically transformed the taste into Christmas." Oscar is nearly in tears when he is finished, pulling a genuine smile out of him. When his husband finally manages to stop the endless giggles, the cake is gone and Lando feels less tired as well.

"Not quite but you've got nutmeg so I'll give you that love. I mixed the spices from our mulled wine recipe into the cream - minus the wine, obviously. But I like your idea better." They make their way to the office to pick their coats up, and head to the car after.

"Does that mean I can tell our customers that you personally went and visited Santa for this cheesecake cream recipe?" Lando asks as Oscar starts the car.

"Well that's definitely better than giving out my trade secrets" Lando is happy with that, he so will be telling their guests just that, when the cheesecake makes it to the menu."