#translated so that we can see the doctor like bark to communicate. but every other language is being translated why not that one

[connormoving]

also i admire dws refusal ever to engage with language barriers

[frobin]

astolfobia

hat auf deinen Eintrag geantwortet

“I can totally understand the Jinbe/Robin ship, it does make sense. But...”

>> What... do you mean about not being sure if Zoro reacted correctly or not about Usopp?

Hey hey, 

okay this has nothing to do with FRobin and is more about Zoro, Usopp and the crew dynamics but since you asked I decided to answer. And I try to make myself clear because it’s probably VERY, VERY, VERY subjective and also comes from my female and very European point of view. 

I read the scene again (in german bc I don’t have the official translation at hand) but I also looked if kaizoku-ni-naru has it translated and here it is: https://kaizokuou-ni-naru.tumblr.com/post/190464807603/thank-you-so-much-for-your-wonderful-blog-im

Also many of it is from memory because of course I’m missing the volumes with the beginning of Water7 More behind the read more: 

Let’s do a little recap: 

Usopp left the crew. Why? Because to him it seemed like they were leaving Merry behind because the ship wasn’t strong enough anymore. 

That might seem weird since Merry is just a ship right? But we know that Merry had a soul, that manifested in the Klabauter. Merry was part of the crew but as soon as she was too weak (Usopp did not know that Merry was beyond repair), as soon as there was something better, Merry was replaced. 

That hit Usopp hard because Merry had not only been a present from his friend Kaya but this ship had been with them through so much and who knows how strong the bond between Usopp and the ship had really grown (he had been the one to see the Klabauter and the first to hear Merrys voice) so of course for him it felt like they were abandoning not only a ship, a thing, but a friend and even a crew mate.  Now, Usopp has a lot of problems. He feels weak, especially compared to Luffy, Sanji (who is also the cook) and Zoro who are The Monster Trio for a reason. Nami is a Navigator and so essential to the crew. Chopper is a doctor (also essential) and a literal monster! 

But all Usopp can do is shoot. He is probably going to be the best sharp-shooter in the world but he is not aware of that. Not back then and not now. Even after all the amazing things Usopp did in the recent arcs, he still considers himself weak. 

His self-worth is low and he loathes himself, probably feels like he is worth nothing. The only thing that he is good for is keeping Merry afloat, a memento to his island where he was important. Maybe the only thing that keeps him afloat too. 

So, the crew is willing to abandon Merry. Who tells that they won’t abandon him? Right after he lost a part of the money that was supposed to be used for Merry, right after he had to be saved by his crew, because he is weak!  

And you can bet that Usopp has abandonment issues too. After all, his father left to have adventures. Usopp lost his mother to sickness when he was still a small child. The village was annoyed by the child that ran every morning along the road to shout “Pirates are coming!”. Not as a threat but because he hoped that it would be true, that his dad would come back for him one day. Instead he grew up alone until he found some kids that thought he was cool enough to be their leader. He somehow managed to befriend the sick girl, and told her lies, like he did for his mother. And then Kaya was willing to renounce, to abandon him for Kuro.  

Merry is important and they want to leave Merry - him - behind.   

Usopp was afraid, got angry and he attacked Luffy. 

Was it smart? No. Was is it understandable? Yes. Could they have handled all that better? Fuck yes! 

But they are both teens who are stubborn and hot headed and in a tough and loaded situation. So I understand why it happened. 

And Usopp again is beaten, even with his smarts and his knowledge of Luffy’s weaknesses. He could not win. Because he is too weak. He lacks. He is not good enough. Luffy not only destroyed Usopp’s (already beaten) body, but also another part of his self worth. 

(I’m not crying you’re crying!) 

Then, we all know that Robin was caught,  while Usopp fixed himself up and then later met Franky. It was only then that Usopp learned that the ship was beyond repair but also learned that Merry had a Klabauter. And then more shit happened. What we also know is that Usopp had a very, very large role in the rescue of Robin and that he was one of the people who talked sense into her. Without him they wouldn’t have saved Robin and Luffy might have given up. He pep-talked him to continue fighting. 

(It’s still you who is crying! Shut up!) 

Anyway, let’s get to Zoro telling the rest of the crew that they can only accept Usopp back when he apologizes. Which, let’s be honest, makes sense.

Usopp should apologize. Because he was in the wrong. But his decisions came from a very specific place. 

So yeah, Zoro is right. But I get a bad feeling at the whole display of aggression and that Zoro expects Usopp to live up to his (Zoro’s) also very specific views and values of a warrior and the honor associated with it, without caring for Usopp’s. Again, a boy who grew up alone without any role model except that vague idea of an amazing pirate that was sailing the sea.

And the whole “Either it is like I say or I go!” stroke me as especially harsh.

Because I’ve been confronted with that sentiment so often, that I felt that deep in my bones. When I read it first, I didn’t even realise why that scene shook me. But it was that exact sentiment that poisoned my club and ultimately made me leave it, because I gave the ultimatum right back “You will go if things don’t go your way? Then go or I leave!” I’ve been part of that club since I had been seven years old. I left it with 25 because I had more balls than that fucking asshole and I’m still pissed about it, ten years later. And I’m very forgiving.

What Zoro said was that everyone has to know their place or they are no material to be a pirate (which is kind of weird since some people become pirates to be free, if you want to follow and know your place, maybe you should become a Marine). Ultimately you have to know whom to follow and that is - in this case - Luffy and no one else. You have to trust his judgement because he is the captain or else he is not much of a captain. 

And again this can make sense because if you don’t trust your captain or know your place on a ship it can be a death sentence at sea. 

Then there is this thing that this is ‘no playing pirate’. 

We still don’t know all of Luffy’s reasons why he wants to be pirate king but he often hints that he just wants to be free and have fun with his friends. That sounds a lot like ‘playing games’. At that point he only slowly learns that being a pirate is often way more serious and dangerous and filled with tough decisions than he thought. Playing games and have fun, that is why he was so delighted when he heard that Usopp wanted to come back. But playtime is over that is why he agreed with Zoro. Time to grow up they are at war after all.  

We know why Usopp left the crew, went against his captain and friend, because Usopp felt like they were abandoning ANOTHER FRIEND. 

But whatever reason there MIGHT BE does not matter for Zoro. He even says he does not know why all of it happened, does not care who was wrong or right.

I think that is a dangerous sentiment! Because personally, I feel like it’s important to try to see outside of your own perspective and I think you should never judge before you know all the facts. If you then still come to the same conclusion that is fine and if you come to another that is good too.That is what it means to make an informed decision, because the world is not black and white. Many things have reasons that are so layered that you can’t just expect everyone to come to the same conclusion when they don’t have the same information. That is why communication is important. 

Usopp waited for the very last moment to reach out to his friends. The longer he waited the longer he could imagine that everything would be fine in the end. He gave himself to that illusion. Zoro would have never done that and so no one else should do it. He is not exactly empathic. I feel like Zoro can’t look farther than his own ideas.

But I can agree with Zoro to some amount. I understand where he comes from.

Do I like it? Absolutely not. 

So, to slowly come to an end, we all know how this went. And I have to give it to Zoro, he also did say “I hear nothing” whenever Usopp tried to handle the situation like nothing had happened. He wanted him back too, after all.

And shit, it worked. Usopp cried out to his friends, he apologized and Luffy reached out to him to reel him in. 

But I can’t help but think that it absolutely destroyed Usopp after all. He saw his friends leaving him behind in a foreign city without any support. He just got a bounty and so would get in the focus of the marines, especially them thinking he is still part of the Strawhat crew. 

The crew, his friends, would leave him because he is weak and not worth anything and he would have no friends and be alone forever. 

I don’t even want to start to imagine the pure despair he felt that moment. And it stayed with him, as we learn in Thriller Bark. And again and again. 

So yeah. 

It worked in the end but I think it could have been handled better. 

Well, that is easy to say as a grown up with some more years under my belt and from an outside perspective. But even back when I first read it, it gave me a strange feeling. 

I think at least one of the crew should have talked to Usopp and given him some clues. And I’m sure Franky would have if he knew what was up but he hadn’t been part of the crew. Robin didn’t for whatever reason talk to Usopp, but she also never agreed with Zoro, looked almost angry about it. Nami also didn’t want to go against her captain, I guess. Sanji agreed with Zoro, maybe also with a bad feeling and Chopper is even less experienced than any other of them.

Oda is an amazing storyteller with a lot of characters that have an incredible amount of layers but that does not mean I agree with him all the time and so I don’t agree with his characters all the time.   

And that is what I meant. XD Sorry for the long text.

[mysleepdeprivedass]

Another ML fanfiction idea

And here we go for another prompt fic idea that I got while reading a fanfiction on AO3. I want to write this idea but I’m too lazy for writing a whole fanfiction.

And just want to keep in my head but it was driving me crazy sooo let's go.

Btw I inspired by the fanfiction MDR by Yilena  (on AO3) (@xiueryn on tumblr)  (also I haven’t finish the fanfiction yet but I need to let go the idea of my head)  

(let's go for translate everything a wrote again T^T and I just saw how long a wrote, the translation it's gonna be looong x.X also idk some term are correctly translate sorry if it's not)

Also warning, i’m going to talk briefly about eating disorder, bullying and suicide so skip the part in italic if the idea or the word can triggered you.

Have a nice reading on my 2.am writing idea. \0/ 

AU steamer / youtuber Marinette

Marinette begging steaming around her fifteen, and she become quickly know for her skills for some game

Marinette have now like 19 yrs old, almost 20.

She plays a lot of different games.

At first (when she was 15 ) she wasn't doing face cam steaming. After a years and a half, she start face cam but disguise. Her disguise is, a clothes always in polka dots red and black, and she have a mask which hide almost all her face and she wear a red wig (she have different wig, pixie cut, big curly, straits, ect,... But they're all red)

On twitch she is know as Ladybug, and she have a YouTube channel where she post all her rediffusion of her twitch live.

Marinette have a big community verry supportive and nice. She's the kinda of girl that going to play with her fan during live if she met them on the game.

She doing some explained and tip live on game that she's really good at or that she's love.

Her favorite game are Ultimate Mecha Strike saga. And a new independent MMORPG game call " The Tale of Miraculous" a kinda fantasy/fantastic game, that's become more and more difficult when your reach a levels.

Also it's a no-miraculous idea

At first, when she started live’s, qhe was doing a lot, like every night she was doing a live which ended around 4 or 5am. But after a big meltdown on live (she was around 17 years olds) she make a calender, which sometine change depending on he mood.

Monday Night : Games of her choice, most of the time she play at TTOM (The Tale Of Miraculous) or fighting games. From 8 p.m. to 1 a.m. or 2 a.m.

Wednesday Night : if she started a let’s play, she is doing the let’s plays, if she not she’s doing two or three games, most of the time horror games or strategy games. From 8p.m to midnight or 1 a.m.

Calender most of the time : 

Friday Night : chill night, she talk or debates with viewers while playing at Minecraft or she opening fan mail or for some occasion she is cooking. From 8p.m to random but between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.

Sunday Night : Let’s plays or games selected by the community. From 8p.m to Midnight.

 Marinette has become very hermits and go out just a few time. She works at her parents bakery and has her own shop (known as Ladybug) her community know that she makes homemade clothes and she has a lot of customers from her community but also from famous people. 

Every other week she doing a live between 9 p.m. and 12 a.m. in addition, where she plays indie games or flash games or during fashion week (or any fashion show) she like to do reviews about it and commentary.

Marinette finished school at home because of harassment, she had ended up making several suicide attempts, and had a severe eating disorder and was anorexic 

She suffered bullying very early, already in elementary school, and it got worse in middle school where the physical attack was violent. She got kicks, push down the stair, she got a lot a fractures, spit on, etc,..

After a big lynching after school, she try to kill herself, she got hospitalized and her parents finnaly knew about what she suffered. After that she become homeschooled.

A lot of cosplayers ask for commisions.

Chloé had started insults her in primary school but had stop everything before middle school except that others took over, like Lila.

Chloe apologized to Marinette after her suicide attempt. Even though Marinette and Chloe are not best friends, the two get along. Chloé always feels it's her fault that things got there

During her convalescence it’s when that she became Ladybug but was not in face cam.

She started streaming after being released from the hospital

She had a general ES bac (it’s a degree in french school, if you want i can explain french school in a other post... because I’m french ._.) and she studied fashion by correspondence.

For the 3 years anniversary of her twitch channel, she explain her firt years as the stramers, he past, and explain that twitch literaly save her live.

She self-harm for a long time (betwenn 11 and 16 years old)

She still have drugs and antidepressant, and she is follow by a doctor for her eating disorder.

During her depression, she developed agoraphobia, she doesn’t go to convention where she’s invited because of that, also because she wants to avoid overloading Tikki.

Fu is her psychologist.

Tikki is her service dog because she have anxiety attacks and panic attacks and she can hurt them during those.

Tikki is a Labrador, viewers sometine see her during live (try to climb on Marinette lap’s)  or hear her bark (very rare but can alway happen) 

Marinette loved roasted the clothing collections and clothing choices in video games. She also loves talking about RuPaul Drag Race.

She’s  openly bisexual and gender fluid,

She lives in a small apartment not far from her parents to be able to stream quietly.(And without disturb her parents)

Viewers know other room of her apartment. She stream on green screen, but when she live and do open fan mail she is in front of a wall with drawings and gifts from fans that she received. They also know her kitchen but she rarely on the kitchen. 

She don’t do much live on the Kitchen but she doing some videos edited on cook video for explain some bases and some recepis. It is to teach the beginner how to cook or the person who is on a tight budget.

Her first cooking live become a meme. She fall several times, managed to stick an egg to the ceiling (god know how), set fire to heroven, and spilled milk and flour all over her floor.

In her live chill, call “let's talk little, let's talk well” in her playlist of rebroadcast on her youtube channel, she brings people on discord to give their opinion on the subject or their experience. She has with subjects from religion, the LGBTQ community, mental illness, to motor disease, to lighter subjects like which animal people find the cutest or whether or not she should go and throw eggs at her neighbor that she hates or she talks about the series or TV show she watches.

Marinette only go out, for work, appointment or hang out with Luka, Juleka and Rose, all are her childhood best friends.And all know that’s she is Ladybug.

Marinette is known for screaming when she plays horror games and there's quite a lot of compilation of her falling off her chair or screaming, often accompanied by Tikki who jumps on her knees think of a panic attack and suddenly she falls off her chair because of Tikki.

*scene*

Marinette after a litlle jump scar : 

“ son of bi-”  * Tikki jump on her laps*

Luka is also a stramer mostly music related, but he some night doing game stream. He also have a youtube channel dedicate to music. He is call The Viperion Silencio.

 “what the fu- !”  *fall off her chair with Tikki on her, Tikki laying on her*

Luka and Marinette dated for a year and a half before realizing that they were better as friends that as couple. Their get along even better after they break.

Hours : 

Tuesday night: 8:30 p.m. to midnight, play video games

Friday evening: 8:30 p.m. to 1 a.m., review and play with Marinette at Minecraft

On twitch he sing or do some music reviews that viewers recommend. And if not play

He always showed his faces.

On youtube he does covers, original songs, has critical videos. All the videos are directed by him and edited by Juleka, him or Rose.

He also have odd jobs 

Saturday: 8 p.m. to 2:30 a.m., sing, some reviews and a the end he play video games

Nino, Alya and Adrien, are TTOM players, and Adrien is a huge Ladybug fan along with Alya.

He has always been close to Marinette and helped a lot especially for her eating disorder. It helps her eat and regain a healthy relationship with her body and food.

Nino and Alya hang out in each other's apartment in turn

Nino is not a big fan of Ladybug but likes to watch her lives sometine.

Nino and Alya live close to each other and are dating

On the other hand, he's a huge fan of what Luka does.

 Nino meets Adrien on a dating site, he made a account for joking (before he dated Alya) and the two got really well, and they started exchange discord, and phone number, playing together, and they already saw each other.

Sometine, Alya and Nino go to Paris and sometime Adrien go to Bordeaux.

Nino and Aly live in Bordeaux.

Alya joined them and the three are very close and have already met in Paris.

 Nino, Alya and Adrien are 20 years old, soon 21.

Inside joke between Adrien and Nino, on the fact that Nino “cheats” on Alya with Adrien or vice versa.

Too many “bro” between Adrien and Nino, and too many bro joke

Like, I imagined, Alya hant out  at Nino place, the three playing at TTOM.

Nino die

Adrien it’s like “Noo bro, you’re my whole world bro, you can’t live me broo”

Nino is like “ Broo I hace to leave, Bro my end is close, I love you soo much broo, live my life broo”

And Alya his laying on her stomach on Nino bed, head buried in Nino sheets and she growls and insults both them and call them "drama queen"

Alya is a huge sore loser and a salty loser.

In the evening and especially when he is tired Nino is a big game trollers.

Alya is a Ladybug Twitch Admins, she was one of the first on Marinette's channel and she quickly was in her Discord. She chats a lot with her on Discord. And she helps Marinette to make special videos where there is real editing. Other admins do it too.

Adrien, Nino meets Marinette thanks to TTOM because Marinette has created a beginner party where no one knows her, she becomes friends with Nino (whom she quickly destroy) and TIN TIN TIN group chat between the 4 (with Alya in it).

Kim is Nino's childhood friend and he started playing TTOM to spent time with his bro, and ended up in group chat (with Alix because he drag her in the game too), he's not good at games and and just a cannonball but he like let off frustration by beat out the hell of the enemy

Baby step by baby step, the group chat add more people

 He live with Alix in Toulouse, their roomate.

Alix plays a bit at TTOM but plays a lot of flash and horror games.

Ivan and Mylène have 22 years old and are a couple, they don't know Ladybug much, but they've already received a lot of donation from her for their environmental association and Marinette has advertised for them for free

Alix likes Ladybug but she is not her favorite streamer.she understand Marinette's struggle on her eating disorder  because she had eating disorder since she was a child, Kim helps her a lot with it

Nathaniel lives in Auvergne with Marc, the two work together on comics but Nathalie also works as a freelance illustrator and he has already made the banner and stickers for steamers and youtubers, including Marinette.

Ivan and Mylène do vlogs and have a site and an environmental association that Marinette really appreciates.

Max is a little streamer well known to be one of Marinette's best rivals, especially on Ultimate Mecha Strike 3. 

He also does video thumbnails and cover video illustrations for a lot of youtubers including Luka.

Nathaniel started chatting with Marinette because of this (Marinette commissioned him for her website, and her channels) and the two became very good friends.

He lives in Strasbourg and works in engineering stuff.

He does very little live but has a very loyal audience because he's a goddamn god on some games.

And some compilation of their best roasted and sassy moment are on youtube.

The two fight each year for the prize of UMS3

The two like to throw shades at each other  when they playing together.. Very big sassy and roasted moment.

* A bit like RuPaul's Reading season 5 between Alaska and Alyssa Edward * (Yeah i’m kinda in some fever of RPDR right now)

Like : 

There is a roasted meme running in their respective communities, because Max had been champion for two years when Marinette arrived and took that cup from him.

“Hey Bug In !  Here Ladybug, I'm with our dear friend The Gamer, undefeated champion of UMS3 oh whait -

They talk on discord

Okay I finish to translate everything, and shame on my I finish juste by copy paste from google translate. 

* gasp then clap * bravo, it was a good one, Miss [insert thing that Marinette lost or meme of her]

And their conversation is basically shades and meme.

Bruh I wrote a lot :o

I don’t know if I’m going to do some update on it. Give me your opinion on it ! Also you can take some idea just tag me and let’s me see what you have do ^^ !

Good Night  

[niobe44]

My first fanfic is a melendaire

Hi, I am French, my English is poor, so I hope there are not many faults in this text. I’m new to Tumblr so I don’t yet master the app. I hope you will be pleased with this text, and I welcome your comments.

Chap1

The episode of the illness that plunged the quarantine service had somewhat disrupted every staff member. If, according to Shaun's statistics, one and the same event will not be repeated in St José for fifteen years, the faces of the doctors were badged of the anxiety recently undergone.

Neil Melendez paced  the corridors this  Thursday of February. The sky was white outside and he thought quickly that a weekend in the country would be beneficial. He was tired of the past year and sometimes pretending. If his arrogance allowed him to assert his authority in his career he had little opportunity to show his sensitivity. Since his forties he was tormented by his present life. His relationship with Lim was simple, a strong friendship with a few nights of drinking. However, he felt empty, something was out of place.

When he saw his interns he cast out  his thoughts out. Park seemed happy to him since his son was more present with him, Morgan faithful to herself stood straight and haughty on the lookout for surgery that could propel her directly resident, Shaun and Claire were talking together. Claires's curls came off in a cascade on his blue blouse and for a split second Neil was caught in this contemplation. The last operation he had led with Claire was a success and the young woman kept to surprise him. Sensitive, communicative, gifted, she was an excellent student and would become a great surgeon. He knew it. The smile Claire give  him to brought him back to reality.

"- Hello everybody, this morning we have a case of hypoplasia of the left heart on a child of 11 years, Murphy you can tell us more?"

- It is a malformation of the left ventricle, the whole right part of the heart must compensate: eject the blood to the pulmonary artery but also to the aorta .. Normally it is detected by pre-natal electrocardiography. It is necessary to repair the aorta too small.

- Exactly. Park and Murphy you will be with me on this case. Reiznik Dr. Lim needs you in the E.R. Browne, the dermatology department asked to see one of us. Take the file and give me the situation .

Morgan protested with a glare. Claire was disconcerted by this distance. Only Park and Shaun seemed delighted with their fate.

Claire arrived at the dermatology department when the doctor Syrus, an accomplished dermatologist came to meet her:

- "Ah finally it is you the  intern that we are sent to us , it falls well, come see by there in my opinion this case isn't up to than my sole responsibility anymore , at these words he quickly entered a consultation room whose windows were tinted and hurried to close the door behind them.

"Oh," Claire exclaimed in front of the patient, "Excuse me,said she, Hello, I'm Dr. Browne, I'm an intern in surgery, and I'm here because Dr. Syrus thinks that together we can help you.

The patient, a 35-year-old man was visibly contaminated with lewandowsky-lux disease. His body was completely covered with bark-like warts, forming outgrowth on all his limbs. His hands and torso were no longer distinguishable and his head leaned back, pulled by the weight of the root skin. His eyes were still visible, but he spoke with difficulty.

"- Obluo is Filipino, his disease has developed there, in his village he is considered a sage because he heals, sees the future, administers the village.This is an OnG who helped to bring him to the United States hoping it can be cared by doctors, explained Syrus.The radios show extensive skin carcinoma and multivisceral failure.This is no longer a matter of dermatology it requires a heavy surgery to find the epidermisThere may lesions deep downs that need to be treated.

Claire looked at the man with difficulty.

The man seemed to smile at Claire.

"Obluo," she said, "I'm going to get other doctors and all together we'll try to solve your problem." She was aware that the man did not understand, but his benevolence forced her to explain.

"Dr. Syrus, I'll tell to  Dr. Melendez.

She found Neil at his office surrounded by Shaun and Park,discussing the best way to intervene on cardiac hypoplasia.On seeing her, he said happily, "Ah, Dr. Browne, so this dermatology why does she need us?

- Uh a verruciform Epidermodysplasia on a 35 year old man ..

- A what ? Asked Park.

"The tree man," said Melendez, "dont you know that means?

- It's genetic, interrupted Shaun and incurable. There are only 200 cases worldwide.

"Well, what do you think Dr. Browne?" asked Melendez .

-In the current state of things it is necessary to release the limbs in causing internal lesions in order to relieve the vital organs.

- Well now let's see if we can get a better particulars  . Murphy, Park prepare our patient for the intervention I'll join you after.

Claire and Neil  encountered Syrus,scowling,  that annonced  them bad news:

"the carcinomas have reached the pancreas, the liver and the weight of the warts compress the circulation including that of the encephalon.The operation is very risky, the chances of success guarantee it only temporary comfort but if we do not operate it will die in a few months of  multiple internal injuries.And an interpreter arrived.

After greeting the interpreter and explain to him the situation Melendez osculta Oblua.

Oblua was smiled alternately at Claire and Neil while listening to the interpreter  who explained the operation. The man laughed and asked questions: the interpreter answered them, then Oblua said something and the interpreter laughed.

"- What's he saying ?" Asked Melendez

"-He says you are one and the same heart that does not know it yet.

Claire's eyes met Neil's amused gaze.

"-It is very enigmatic all this, it can mean everything, it's thruth  I operates hearts!

The interpreter translates to Oblua, who frowned and shook his head laughing louder.

"-He says dawn will rise in your mind.

"-Well," said Melendez, "we're done with preoperative consultation, Oblua, me, and my mind we'll see you in a few hours."

Melendez had  leave Claire with the" tree human" and was heading to the block for heart surgery. He was troubled by the words of the man. The man must have been  learn that he was a cardiac surgeon, which was probably the content of the message. And then after all who did not need more light in his mind?

He thought furtively about Claire's curls and their exchanged gaze but decided that none of this had any logical explanation and that he was really too tired.

Claire was also thinking of the man's words. He seemed wise, benevolent, "One heart." To believe the rumor the heart of Neil was taken again. She must have been lucid: that annoyed her a little. Yet their looks remained unchanged: intense and talkative. He had to looked at all his colleagues like that ..

The cardiac operation was a total failure. The heart was not strong enough, the child had other organic disorders. Hours of complications and urgency to keep the child alive had only succeeded in plunging him into a coma. The parents were collapsed.Shaun placidly announced that the child would die while Park was affectedd by the patient who was the same age as his son .He  was searching for a cure.

  Melendez  looked at hell  when he entered the No. 2 block. Obluo was not yet anesthetized and  was smiling at the sight of Neil and Claire standing side by side:

"-You know," he said to Melendez, "for the child: his spirit is free, he's going to leave now" and Obluo fell asleep.

Claire saw the surprise on Neil's face.

The operation lasted more than 15 hours, it was necessary to cut sometimes with the saw the hard skins of the body of the man to clear his body of his tree prison. When they had finished, the man's constancies were normal.

All the staff was exhausted.

When he woke up, the patient was calm and thanked each of the doctors standing on either side of his bed. Obluo squeezed Claire's hand in a respectful gesture and grabbed Melendez's wrist for talk him. 

-"He left " .

Claire watched with concern as Melendez slowly emerged from the man's embrace and out of the room. He was nauseated.

It was then that Shaun came to announce the death of the child.

Neil had decided to send his interns home. All were tired. It was past 6 a.m

Neil left his blouse, he was hot and needed to get fresh air immediately.

The end of the night was cooling  on the terrace of the refectory. The first thing he saw was the brown curls. He settled down next to Claire.

"I learned for your patient,"  said she , "I'm sorry.

- Yes, the day was difficult. But you worked well, Obluo is alive.

- The disease will come back but he does not seem to be worried.

- Some things always come back. Thoughts, obstacles. Things that turn ... in a loop. He said that last sentence in a low voice.

"It may be a good thing," said Claire. It may mean that happiness, joy, love come back too. 

Neil looked at her. It seemed to her that Claire's eyes were an answer to everything that was flickering in her thoughts. Claire smiled at him, returning that deep and immense look.

It had begun to rain and a drop was spinning on a lock of Claire's hair.

Neil stared at the drop and ran her hand over the curl. Mechanically he put the lock the hair behind Claire's ear. Her eyes plunged again in Claire's. He feld over into it. He slipped his hand from his ear to his temple, his thumb traveling over his cheekbones. His second hand came to join Claire's neck. Nobody said words. Each look was an endless fire. He framed his face with his hands as if to contemplate it better. Claire's mouth was smiling. She touched Neil's hip with her palm and her forehead swung against Neil's. He caressed of his lips  Claire's lips before kissing them. The attraction of kissing was so strong  that it was impossible for them to stop pressing their lips against each other, from his mouth Neil gently took Claire's lower lip to taste it entirely and she did the same with his . Her fingers were lost in her hair and Claire let her fingers run down Neil's neck to his chest.

The ground was falling under their feet.

They were felt the axis of the earth was where it should be.

They ruled out from each other.

 Their eyes betrayed the gigantic confusion  that came to reveal themselves. They panted for a moment, their breath caught in the embrace, looking at each other in amazement. Neil picked up his briefcase, straightened up as the sun illuminated Claire's curls and the mirror of her eyes. Upset with desires, he stared at her intently in the morning light and stepped out of the terrace. 

Dawn had  risen.

[thecatwhogrins]

Peacetime (part 4)

Please enjoy! (Warning! Some allusion to rape here so please be warned).

Shirayuki almost sobs.

He’s here, he’s alive.

But she holds her tongue because the way he looks at her is strange, as though he’s never met her before. Her head is spinning, trying to piece together what is going on. She feels as though she is in a twisted nightmare, something out of a horror novel.

Obi walks up to her, as usual, his stride is confident, silent. He isn’t wearing his usual attire, instead he wears the colours of the enemy, to her dismay. He looks rougher than before, as though these four months she’s been gone have hardened him. From where she stands she can see that he’s sporting new, fresher scars, scars she was not there to help heal. She almost reaches out towards him but stops herself. This Obi doesn’t seem to know her.

He turns to the officer and asks something in German before turning back to her, eyes unchanged, distant.

“I will translate what you say. Why are you here?” he asks her, his eyes prompting her to speak, even though her whole body wants to flee.

She repeats what she said before almost mechanically and he translates to the officer quickly and efficiently.

“Miss? Miss, what is your name?” Obi asks her and Shirayuki almost laughs in disbelief. But she holds it in.  Looking insane will not help her case, so she tells him her name quickly. He repeats it to the officer. They start talking in hushed voices. The sound of her name on his lips feels strange, it’s distracting.

“We will look for survivors and bring them to our camp, as this is a red cross vehicle. You will come along too,” states Obi.

Shirayuki sways slightly on the spot, her head throbbing in pain, her mind racing with all the possibilities. She couldn’t resist them or run away. Who knew what might happen? And Obi… Could Obi be a traitor? Did he defect?

Shirayuki simply could not believe that was the case. Zen would have written something about this in his letters. Furthermore, even if Obi was a mystery in many ways, his loyalty to the allies was beyond doubt. She had seen many times how passionate he was to end the war, bring the peace back. The mere thought of him defecting made absolutely no sense.

Was he spying, then? Going undercover?

Shirayuki thought this made much more sense. How many times had she seen him coming back from a long absence and seen him go straight towards the commanders’ tent? He wore a uniform that was different to the other soldiers and never seemed to follow any specific unit. He seemed to shelter so many secrets and never told her where he had been, how he had received his wounds.

This thought allowed Shirayuki to breathe easily again. Yes, he was spy. That was why he couldn’t show any recognition towards her.

Shirayuki would play along. She would not distract him from whatever mission he had been assigned to. Her resolve strengthened, and she turned towards the soldiers.

She would trust her friend.

*

They found most survivors and Shirayuki helped the wounded onto stretchers. She was surprised that the enemy soldiers didn’t just kill them all but thanked her lucky star that they hadn’t. She was also grateful that Yuzuri and Suzu had not been on this flight, but her heart wept for the other passengers who hadn’t made it.

They made their way back towards the camp in silence, Shirayuki walking by the side of the most wounded soldier on a make piece stretcher, holding his hand, keeping an eye on his state. When she wasn’t soothing the poor man, her attention went back to Obi’s tall figure, walking only a few meters away. She noticed the back of his neck, how his hair hadn’t been cut straight. Her heart ached, wishing she could ask him what was going on.

But she stayed steadfast.

They finally made it at the German camp. It looked very much like every other military camp she had ever gone to. The men all looked exhausted, deep purplish bruises under their eyes, clothes that had seen too much wear and not enough washing. They watched the group as they walked by, curious but not enough to ask. The ground was muddy, the sky murky and the silence weighed heavily. The men who weren’t wounded separated from the group and went about their businesses, looking for food or stumbling away to go to sleep.

A tent stood a few meters away and Shirayuki immediately knew it was the medical tent. The moans of pain coming from inside it was enough of an indication. The tent flap opened, and a tired looking man walked out, wiping his hands on a cloth.

He spotted the group and his hands went limp beside him in disbelief.

He barked something at the officer, his face full of irritation. The other man replied calmly, gesturing towards Shirayuki. The doctor shook his head and replied something tiredly. She was slightly confused at this. What was going on?

Obi popped up at her side, silent as ever.

“The officer has brought you here, so you can help the resident doctor, as we’ve lost most of our medics during a bomb raid,” he says, placid, his eyes not even meeting hers.

“I understand,” she replies calmly, even though her heart is drumming away inside her ribcage.

The doctor approaches, his white coat smeared with all manners of bodily fluids and appraises her.

“My name is doctor Forzeno. Are you a nurse?” he asks, his voice laced with a slight german accent. Clearly, this man has spoken English before.

“No, I am an herbalist, but I’ve been trained and have worked long enough to know most procedures,” she answers.

Doctor Forzeno seems satisfied enough with this answer and motions at her to follow him.

She has one last look at Obi before the tent flap closes.

*

The next few days are spent helping the doctor with the wounded. Communication is sometimes hard, as some of the words he uses are not the same in German and in English, making the easily frustrated doctor even more irritated. He berated her daily, complaining about every mistake she made. Shirayuki would argue back calmly until they both finished their work. It was exhausting. Furthermore, the men from her aircraft had only added more work to the Doctor who was already swamped.

With every man Shirayuki saved, she felt a terrible dilemma develop inside of her. These men were her enemies, every time she helped one meant one of the men on her side could die. What if this man is the one who will kill Zen? What if this one kills Mitsuhide? These thoughts swirl inside her head endlessly. But at the same time, these men are also only just… men. Wounded men. Had she not become an herbalist, a nurse, to help people in their hour of need? Could she deny these men their chance at living? Had she not taken the nightingale pledge?

Every night, as she fell into a restless sleep on her cot, alongside the other remaining nurses who mostly ignored her, and loneliness wrapped itself around her, she wondered how her friends were doing. She wondered if Yuzuri or Suzu knew what had happened to her. If Zen had learned the news and if he had relayed it to Kiki and Mitsuhide. Had she been reported as dead?

But mostly her thoughts went to Obi.

Working alongside the doctor, she barely ever had a glimpse of him as he passed through the camp. There was no interaction whatsoever, which made Shirayuki quite nervous.

As weeks started to pass, despair wormed itself into her heart.

*

Five weeks later

It was a cold night, the doctor had gone back to his tent, grumbling and sleep-deprived. Shirayuki had urged him to go back to his quarters softly and to her surprise, he had listened.

Shirayuki couldn’t say that they were friends. It was more like a mutual understanding. Even though they were from opposing sides of this war, they both wished to save lives. He was not a very sociable person to begin with, but he seemed to tolerate her now.

Shirayuki was the only medical staff member left in the medical tent, putting away the instruments, cleaning up, even though her limbs felt stiff and she felt like she might drop of exhaustion right then and there. She heard someone enter and turned around.

The dim light did not make recognising the man easy, but she would have recognised this man anywhere.

Obi.

“Please trust me,” he whispered urgently. In the dim light his eyes burned with the urgency of his words.

Before she could even speak, he clamped a hand upon her mouth and the other grabbed her around the waist, transporting her towards a cot. Shirayuki struggled against him but her whole body ached with exhaustion. He placed her on the bed and pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other still firmly placed upon her mouth. What was he doing?

Outside, she heard people laughing. A group of men were walking towards the tent, being raucous. What were doing here so late at night?

He reached towards his belt, as though to undo it, and Shirayuki looked up at him, panicking.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he told her fervently, “look like your struggling but not too much,” he continued.

Shirayuki was about to ask him what he meant but suddenly the tent flap opened, and the men entered, stumbling, clearly drunk. They carried flashlights and they turned them towards where Shirayuki and Obi laid. The glaring light blinded Shirayuki, making her eyes water. She struggled a little against Obi, liked he had instructed her to.

“Wer ist da?” one of the men asked.

“Das bin ich, Obi,” responded Obi.

The men and Obi started to talk in German, too fast for Shirayuki to understand with her rudimentary grasp of the language. One of the men laughed and nodded his head towards her, his grin conspiratorial, leering, and a shiver raced down her spin.

Obi laughed too and said something that made all the men laugh. One of the men took a step forward but then Obi’s voice took on a warning tone, even though it still remained light. The other men laughed again, exchanged a few more words, then they all exited the tent slowly.

Calm settled once more, the only sounds disturbing the silence were the whimpers of the wounded men and the harsh breathing of Obi and Shirayuki. She stared at him, her heart racing, his eyes poured into hers and there it was, that spark of familiarity, that hint of tenderness Shiaryuki always saw but never knew how much she loved and missed till now. His scent also permeated the air, pine and spices and she nearly cried.

He quickly takes away his hand from her mouth, as though she had burned him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t what else to do,” he whispered into the dark.

“Obi… What happened?” Shirayuki asked quietly.

“I overheard them. They were going to come over here to harm you,” his eyes were hard, anger seeping through, “I came here first and said you were already… mine,” he finished, his voice is dark with an edge that Shirayuki can’t quite identify, his fingers digging into his shoulder, keeping a respectful distance away.

It takes her a moment but then she understood in that moment. She’d heard of other cases, of men taking women forcefully in villages ravaged by war. She shuddered, he need not say another word.

“Obi, what are…” Shirayuki began but Obi hushed her, a finger on his lip. He looked around to see if anyone was listening. He thought for a while before asking:

“Miss, do you know Morse code?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yes, my grandfather taught me,” she whispered back.

Obi held out his hand, as if asking her to dance. Shirayuki, quizzically, placed her hand in his. The feeling of his callused fingers was something she didn’t know she had missed. He turned it over, palm facing upwards and placed his finger on the skin of her palm, so softly, making a shiver race up her body. He held her eyes as he tapped her hand softly in Morse code. Shirayuki unconsciously mouthed each letter silently.

I was sent on a mission here by General Izana to spy and know when their next attack will be.

Shirayuki nodded. She understood, it was as she suspected. She found she could finally breathe easily. She took Obi’s hand, surprising him, and started to tap as well.

Please finish your mission, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.

He smiles at her in that moment, genuine and warm, his eyes full of admiration.

You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Don’t worry, we will get out of this, I promise.

And in the deep dark night, secretly, they held each other till Shirayuki thought her bones would bruise.

[easyfoodnetwork]

The Exhausting Work of Staycationing

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March.

Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk.

We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it.

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper.

You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian.

This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic.

We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible.

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off?

Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg.

Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it.

I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday.

And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break.

But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully.

It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting.

Watching Twister in the backyard

When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house.

I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded.

We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise.

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair.

I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water.

And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets.

We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end.

Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that?

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Q7xXiB https://ift.tt/34bXKys

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March.

Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk.

We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it.

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper.

You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian.

This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic.

We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible.

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off?

Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg.

Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it.

I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday.

And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break.

But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully.

It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting.

Watching Twister in the backyard

When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house.

I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded.

We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise.

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair.

I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water.

And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets.

We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end.

Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that?

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[ninjagoestogreece]

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

     The Ζάππειον (Zappeion) stands proudly smack in the center of the Athenian National Gardens. The colossal yellow and white marble building hosts both public and private events, and as such, is surrounded by bright fluorescent streetlamps so visitors can navigate the road into and out of the gardens. The path leading behind the Ζάππειον, however? Slightly darker, much to the benefit of a small band of homeless men who sleep on the fountain-side benches at night. Though the path is a little foreboding at first glance, the walk itself is short and generally quite safe. “Generally”, being the operative word.

     The homeless who frequent the gardens tend to have at least a few dogs to keep them company. Most of them wear collars, and none of them are ever leashed. More than once I have encountered them, both walking to and from school. Usually they’re benevolent; one actually decided to guard me while walking to campus during my first week here, walking patiently alongside me as I munched on an apple I’d brought from home. Most of the time, you can spot one or two napping somewhere on the pavement or just off the path in the grass.

     This past Monday evening was no different. While walking towards the metro after class, I came across a husky sleeping in the middle of the path. Now, what you must understand is this: I love every dog. All of them. I couldn’t resist. I quietly gasped, “What a cutie!” and kept walking, smiling at the husky. And then suddenly, I wasn’t smiling anymore. The husky’s eyes shot open, and it barked as it lunged directly at my calves, snapping. I shrieked, knees buckling under the weight of my backpack as I tried to run away from the angry dog. He listened, and withdrew. A group of young men a few paces ahead of me turned at my scream and asked, “Εντάξει, are you ok?”. I mumbled “Όχι, no,” a little too lowly; they walked ahead without me, leaving me limping behind.

     I shook as I stumbled to the Σύνταγμα metro station. Both of my legs had been bitten. I was in as much a state of fear as I was in physical pain. What was I to do? Obviously I needed to get home, as I was my mission previous to my bite -- but what else? Where was the nearest φαρμακείο, the pharmacies that double as emergency first aid stations? There’s typically about seven per block in Athens, but evidently, the busiest square in town forgot to open even one. I would have to wait until I got to my neighborhood, two trains and forty minutes away, to find one that I recognized. What about a doctor? What’s the number for Greek 911 again? I didn’t have those answers to those questions. I could have called my host family, but waiting on a frigid bench for half an hour waiting for them seemed even less favorable. And what about my mom, seven hours behind and unable to be reached without a wifi signal? No; my best chance to deal with this would be to press on for medical help first. And so I hobbled along.

     While boarding my first metro, I ran into an acquaintance -- Vassilis, one of the violinists I wrote about in my last post. I waved him down, and he smiled, sitting across from me. “How are you, how are you?” he asked. “How were your classes?”      “They were fine,” I said, brushing back my hair and laughing anxiously. “I have a bit of a problem, though.”      “What is wrong?”      “I was just bitten by a dog.”      Vassilis’ eyebrows shot up. “Really? When? Where?”      “Behind the Ζάππειον, maybe ... ten minutes ago?” I inched up my left pant leg, wincing. A scrape was oozing a bit of clear lymph on the side of my knee. The other leg was markless, but I felt that it would blossom into a bruise soon enough.      “Ooh. What’re you going to do?”      “Go to a pharmacy, I guess?”      “Good plan, but try to see a doctor too,” he said, watching as I rolled my pant leg back down. “Are you ok?”      I nodded, and smiled half-heartedly. He smiled back. “Do you want me to come too?”      “Thanks, but you should probably get some rest. You fly tomorrow, right?”      “I do. But if you need me ...”      I sigh shakily. “I’ll be ok.”      “Ok.” He nods, and we both stand to get off at Αττική. “You’re coming to the concert on Thursday?”      “Won’t miss it.”      “Good. You can tell me how well you’re doing then.” We parted ways, and I switched to Line 1.

     In Ηράκλειο, I popped into the first pharmacy I saw. As soon as I explained my situation, he took a step back, saying, “I cannot help you. You must go to a doctor.” I hunched over and shrunk away. Full disclosure: I hate going to the doctor. I don’t like when things are wrong with me. Sometime in sixth grade, I broke my two front teeth, being passed from one dentist to the next for months until the very idea of visiting a medical professional nauseated me. So instead, I toddled past the metro towards my house and a second pharmacy. A familiar mane of curly red hair greeted me inside -- my host mother’s sister, who lives next door.

     “Eleni?”      She spun, and kissed me on both cheeks. “Ah! Τι κάνεις, how are you, Melissa? How’s Yilin?”      I felt myself laughing nervously again; it’s a habit. “I got hurt on my way home. A dog bit me.” She gasped, and turned back to the counter, whispering frantically in Greek to the pharmacist to get off her cellphone to look, then ushering me into a chair by the other side of the island. After determining that there wasn’t any bleeding, Eleni translated that I wouldn’t need a rabies shot and that I could be treated over the counter and go to a doctor later if I needed to. She then shuffled me to her place, where she lent me a bottle of betadine (an iodine derivative) and some cotton balls. She apologized for her own excited dog, who nudged his nose in the way of the betadine and my stinging leg. I jumped at first, still full of adrenaline, but ultimately found his need for affection endearing. I thanked Eleni, and she helped me get back down the stairs and at my home again, only to be fawned over by my entire host family (and on a call with my frantic mother) as soon as I walked inside.

     I won’t pretend that I was calm or confident during this ordeal. I had a small plan and directions home, but I was scared and a little clueless. Stress and fear and a lack of information compromised me. In all honesty, had it not been for the kindness and patience of people I had only barely met -- a musician I happened to meet, the sister of my host mother who has only stopped by once or twice to chat -- I would have been far worse off. Would I have been more hurt? No. Would I have been in further danger? No. But I would have been far more anxious, more harried, and more reckless without their guidance, their ability to communicate, and their limitless ability to care for strangers: their φίλοξενια (philoxenia), as it is called. Nobody wants to suffer a crisis, abroad or at home. But I am thankful that it has happened here, surrounded by a people ready to help anyone and everyone.

[blerdsonline]

Execution

When I was sixteen, I wasn’t in a great place emotionally. I was told by a recruiter that all of my problems would be solved if I joined up with SPACE, the Scientific Planetary Alliance for Celestial Exploration, everything would be better. I wouldn’t say everything has been worse, but it hasn’t been better. If anything, it feels like I ran from one problem and ran into another one. Originally, the mission for SPACE was to locate extraterrestrial life. Then, we messed up Earth. The mission changed to finding a planet that we could inhabit with minimum issue. We were a bunch of scientists who had to learn to fight now. No longer were we on a fun trip around the solar system. We’ve been on the ship for almost two years. We’ve discovered several new planets. None of them have been livable. Some are inhabited by giant creatures that would be too much to tame. Beasts as tall as sky scrapers cannot be tamed. There are no giant robots like we were promised. They would shrug off anything we did to them. Other planets have had atmospheres that would kill us in minutes. Some didn’t have solid ground. The entire trip has been pointless. We had Earth; we shouldn’t have messed up. We had years to save the planet but we just kept kicking the can down the road and blaming each other. We haven’t made contact with any intelligent life. The only life we’ve run into wants us dead. It’s ridiculous. I thought there was some grand plan of systematically selecting which planets we visit. Maybe we had some prior knowledge of the ones we chose. Instead, it seems like we’re just aiming in the dark and stopping at every planet we come to. We’re just hoping to find something. Mom wanted me to be a doctor. Every day out here, I wonder if she was right. The constant nagging and hovering didn’t help her make a good point. Still, if I were a doctor I wouldn’t be floating through space. I’m glad she isn’t here to hear that. She would never let me forget it. She’s probably got an ear twitch somewhere down on Earth. Still, it might have been a better career choice than running to the stars instead of finding a solution to my problems. What’s done is done and I can’t change it now. Just, make the best of it. I’ve got two years left on this journey. We’ve learned to master warp speed by channeling the energy of black holes and here we are. Using it every day, and we still haven’t found anything. You’d think they would send out more than one ship. Maybe a smaller ship with less people. But here we are. They wanted a colony of people the moment we found a livable place. We’re just going stir crazy on this ship. More of the civilians are put into stasis due to increases in violence. They aren’t even fighting for anything serious, just looking at each other wrong. It’s ridiculous. I’ve been thinking that it may be more effective to just try to terraform some of the planets that are mostly suitable. It wouldn’t take much more in terms of resources than what we’re doing. Maybe we just go back to Earth and find a way to fix what we screwed up. “Did you hear? They found a radio signal, one that isn’t from Earth,” Jess pops into my cabin to inform me before rushing off. I rush to suit up and track her down. Radio signals is big news around here. The only radio signals we’ve found are ones that were shot from Earth over the years. If this one isn’t from Earth this is huge news. We may have discovered some other life in the universe. We could be on the verge of finally completing our mission after all this time. I make it to the briefing room and it seems like just about everyone is already there. The radio signal is already playing. I don’t understand a thing that they’re saying. Nobody in the room does. A group of translators are huddled in the corner attempting to decipher the language heard. They aren’t having any luck. I’m not sure why we brought translators. It isn’t like any language we encountered out here would be based on Earth languages. That’s just one of the things that doesn’t make sense about this mission. It was rushed and they didn’t think things through. One thing about the voice is that it sounds distressed. That’s universal, in any language the sound of fear carries over. You recognize it. Doesn’t matter if it’s human, animal or alien. You know fear when you hear it, and you know when you see it. A few people are excited about what comes next, but something has scared these aliens, or would we be the aliens here? Either way, there sin’t any time wasted in trying to track the signal down. I’m sure there are coordinates included in the message but we can’t understand them. We’ve instead chosen to track them to their original location. A section of space not far from here. Arriving we see a derelict ship floating out there. There’s no response to our signals. The ship looks damaged, and there may be no more life on board. Still we all vote to enter the ship without hesitation. Those higher up in command rush to suit up and decide that they’ll be the ones to enter the ship. A commotion starts and they give up on the idea. Many feel as if command should be left on the ship in the event of danger. A lie, but nobody wants to be stuck on this ship when this could be our first chance at some real action. When they ask for volunteers almost every hand shoots up. They try to give some speech about no rookies being allowed to partake in such a dangerous mission. One man speaks up and states we’re all rookies in this situation. He’s not wrong. None of us have seen anything like this before. They resort to the classic way of doing it. They draw names from a hate. Five people will enter the ship and do a quick sweep before clearing it for others to enter and find out what happened. I eagerly throw my name in hoping to be chosen, but not expecting it. When my name is actually called as the fifth and last member of the squad, I rush through the crowd pushing people to the side. I’m finally going to do something fun for once. We’re taken into a separate room by leadership and they give us the same standard speech they give any time we touch land on a planet. Be on our best behavior, try to keep the situation calm and all that. This is the first time that it might actually be useful but I’ve got it committed to memory by now. They don’t wait for questions this time, they send us off to suit up sensing our anxiousness. I put my red and white suit, on. Years of technology have changed these suits over the years. They’re essentially suits of armor now, yet nowhere near as bulky as the original space suits. I pull a standard issue laser rifle from the charging station and finish by grabbing my helmet. My heart is beating out of my chest as we’re led to the bridge. Our space bridge extends across to the other ship and makes contact. The magnets trap the ships together. Hooks extend into the hull of the derelict ship to ensure it doesn’t float away with us on board. After a few salutes, we make our way across the bridge. The woman running point uses her plasma torch to cut a hole into the ship. We arm ourselves and get ready for something as she kicks out the piece of ship she had just cut. Inside the ship lights flicker, but there seems to be no sign of life. Our sensors indicate the air is breathable but there is a separate poison floating in the air. The ship looks much smaller from the outside. Inside it is grand and elegantly designed. We focus on function over beauty in our designs, but they seem to have the opposite in mind. What I can only guess is a tree stands alone in the middle of the foyer we breached into. The bark appears to be purple and there don’t appear to be any leaves. However, a white fruit seems to be growing from the tree. There seems to be half eaten pieces near the bottom of the tree. It looks like there were people here for sure. But they all seemed to have left in a hurry. Probably something to do with the distress signal they sent us. With no one left to rescue, our first objective is complete. Our next objective is to find information. Information about the ship, where it came from, where it is going and who piloted it. We attempt to radio back to the hub that the ship seems empty. Our calls fall on deaf ears. Something in the ship is blocking our communications. Perhaps it is whatever the ship is made from. It wouldn’t be absurd to believe it was made from some material that we don’t have any knowledge of. Instead we agree to explore the ship more. We’ve come too far to turn back now that we’ve finally gotten somewhere with this space mission. We spray out an invisible aerosol from our suits. We’ll be able to use it to get back to this entrance should we get lost. Once we pass from the main lobby into the ship there is no power so we rely on our helmet lights to see our way through. The ship is built almost like a maze, with every hall splitting off into another hall. This is a science ship. Rooms filled with computers and microscopes. I suppose some things are universal. None of these things are of human design, but their uses are apparent right away. The keyboard is filled with symbols I don’t recognize. They don’t look like any language or set of numbers I’ve ever seen. I tap a few keys but get no response. I wasn’t expecting one, but if I had it would be a big help. There are cages but none seem to hold animals anymore. The cages are small, so I doubt there would be anything that could hurt us if it was running around free. Computer tablets of some sort, litter the room. I pick one up and it illuminates the screen. Someone had been taking notes. Again, the strange symbols cover the notes as I scroll through. A diagram of what looks to be some kind of cell structure is drawn halfway through with handwritten instead of typed labels. We make our way to the next room; this one seems to be a cafeteria of sorts. Large group seating in different sections of the room. It doesn’t look like the usual lunch tables we have but stools surround floating circles which seem to be tables. The kitchen is what gives it away. It seems to be a large industrial grill, somewhat similar to what you would find in a fast food restaurant. The food however seems to be a lot different. Meat obviously looks like meat, still has bone attached but the colors are different. Green meat would be a certain death on Earth but they’ve got plenty of the stuff in freezers. We regroup in the center of the room, only to notice that we’ve lost a member. Doug, he’s nowhere to be found. The tracker in Doug’s suit has gone dark and he doesn’t respond to our calls. Doug was never a prankster, so something had to happen to him. Perhaps it is time that we get out of the ship and return later with a real party to search for Doug. We follow the spray back but the trail vanishes.This can’t be right. It seems like the entire layout of the ship has changed in the few minutes that we’ve been here. It doesn’t make any sense. The lab was right You can read the rest on Patreon from 12 AM Fiction https://ift.tt/2n4Rvt1 via IFTTT

[readcircles-blog]

Into the Amazon

From the start of my journey it had always been about getting away from normal, from routine. In fact from the start of my early adulthood I had been constantly fantasizing to break free into the unknown of what the world consisted of. It was only until I was halfway across the world, fighting for my life, that I realized how fortunate “normal” was.

After finishing high school I felt obligated to get away from home. I was disinterested and dulled by my surroundings. Even the people closest to me, my favorite places, became smothering and uncomfortable.

I was accepted to University in Colorado and soon relocated there. I joined a community of people who were passionate about the same things as myself; hiking, climbing, skiing, anything that got us outdoors. I was fascinated by the idea of exploring outside of America, getting further out of my comfort zone. I began religiously following adventurers online; photographers, journalists, explorers. These people inspired me, yet even then I  felt myself becoming depressed, feeling stagnant in my environment. Surrounded by students from wealthy families who were partying away their educations, I became fidgety, restless. I would day dream about going out to the highway with a backpack and hitchhiking as far away as I possibly could. Yearning to experience discomfort, poverty, solitude, and anything else which came with it.

Six months later and it was almost time to depart on a one way flight to Chile, the furthest south I’d ever ventured. After leaving the manicured lawns and red brick buildings of the University of Colorado, I would embark on a solo journey across all of South America without any itinerary.

While headed towards Argentina on an overcrowded bus, I caught myself in a moment of reflection. Two months I’d been on the road; I had surfed my way down the Chilean coast, climbed volcanos, rafted rivers, met a wide variety of new people, and still I felt frustrated. Despite the oppressive heat, I was well within my comfort zone. The areas I was visiting, so massively westernised, allowing me to feel comfortable while being so far removed from home. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted change. I was longing for adrenaline, thrill, culture, wild experiences, danger, something to get me going. The reality was I couldn’t change unless I shifted my attitude towards the trip. The tormenting thoughts of a failed adventure consumed me.

By the time I arrived in Bariloche, the northernmost city of Patagonia, I was frustrated with myself and those around me in the busy town cluttered with other travellers. Shutting out my negative thoughts I pushed on. With a cardboard sign and my thumb sticking out, I worked my way down a thousand miles of desolate Argentine highway, into the Jagged peaks and colossal glaciers of Patagonia, through starry nights in the Atacama Desert, across the Salt Flats of Bolivia, and into the Amazon Jungle.

It took 24 hours riding on a bus that wound up crumbling mountain roads, three hours in a jeep through muddy farmland, and four hours on a small wooden river boat to get to what felt like, the middle of nowhere. I wanted to be off the grid, off the beaten path, into stillness. Miles deep in maze of river passages surrounding lush jungle, I’d accomplished this. Time there was spent piranha fishing, anaconda hunting, playing with monkeys; that was exactly what I’d manifested and willed myself into.

It was perfect until the unbearable pain began. Self diagnosing the fast onset of discomfort as a bad case of food poisoning, I’d hoped that imodium pills and water would get me through a few uncomfortable days in the Amazon. That night, the jungle guides brewed me a up a remedy of vines, plants, and tree bark they’d sourced from around the village. They instructed me to drink it before bed and promised it would make my pain go away.

As the third night went on, the sharp pains rapidly evolved. Hours of terrifyingly vivid hallucinations accompanied by chills and  uncontrollable shaking took over my body. Dawn approached and I felt the urge to vomit or have diarrhea. I stumbled out of the screen door and slumped against the outside of the hut. I was seeing double, had no sense of direction and my balance was horrible. I needed to get to a toilet. The closest option was an outhouse, 100 feet away at the end of an elevated boardwalk which appeared to be no more than a few planks slapped together. I couldn’t risk the walk, how could I trust my balance if I couldn’t even see straight? I began to crawl, slow and weak, dripping in sweat, in nothing but my underwear.

The early morning came quickly. The jungle was alive, noises and commotion came from every direction, the chaotic buzzing of insects and birds began to overwhelm me, forcing me to collapse while trying to get ahold of my cerebrum. The sun just under the horizon was bringing a pale blue light to the sky, and dissolving the darkness. My mind and body slowed as I absorbed the surreal setting I was in. Immobilized and being devoured by mosquitos, I looked up into the eyes of an 8 foot caiman lurking in the water next to me, just waiting for a limb.

The next day, the guides took me down river to the nearest village with a doctor. Inside a small clinic I laid still as the doctor examined my abdomen. After numerous sharp jabs and pokes to my lower belly, he looked at me gravely and in hesitance mumbled in spanish,

“Your appendix has ruptured”.

The screeching sounds of alarm bells started going off in my head, this had to be a nightmare. Unable to comprehend the situation,

“Could I die?”, he hesitated after a beat and reluctantly said,

“Yes… I believe you have 8 to 12 hours of life left”.

It’s hard to describe the feeling… comprehending your own mortality. At that moment I thought of one thing, my family, my friends, how devastated they would all be. How I didn’t want this to be the end of living.

Frantically I began to yell, feeling scared, jumbled, confused.

“We need to get a rescue helicopter, now! Call the American Embassy, is there a military base we can contact?! Please, I’ll pay any amount of money, just get me out of here!”

They assured me they’d do what they could. I felt hot, sweaty, unsure of what would happen and thought about my life coming to an end. Nothing was happening, no one was rushing around, no phone calls being made. I soon realized where I was, rural Bolivia. Being the poorest country in South America, the options were scarce, barely existent. My life was not given the same value here as back home, they didn’t have the resources to have me rescued.

I was still, staring at the old, rotting ceiling, thinking about life. All of that life that I would be missing out on. That life that I had taken for granted, been bored with, felt smothered by... all of that seemed like a far off fantasy that I now desired so badly.

Minutes turned to an hour, an hour of hearing no word of what was to happen. An hour taken of the short amount of life I had left, an hour spent staring at a ceiling in tremendous pain, trying to focus on things that made me feel happy, safe, close to home.

Quickly a man entered the room frantically, yelling what seemed like gibberish,

“airplane! airplane!”

A small four seater Cessna pulled up in front of the building. The doctor stabbed me in the butt with a giant needle of morphine, and they loaded me into the plane. My new friend Lewis that I had set in to the jungle with, and a Portuguese girl named Ines, acting as a translator, accompanied me.

Men were running around, fuelling the plane by filling up two liter coke bottles and dumping  them into the very small, rickety jet. The only reason these men even had an airplane, in the middle of the Amazon, was because of their business in the drug trafficking industry. They demanded nearly all of the money we had on us in order for them to fly us to a hospital. There were six people crammed into the four seats as we soared over the amazon in fear. Halfway through the flight, the back door of the plane flew open in aggression and we nearly lost everyones belongings.

We touched down on a dirt road in a town called Trinidad, which seemed to have outlived its reason to exist. The pilot refused to fly me to the Capital city of La Paz, so this was my only option. We entered the hospital in a hurry, though relieved to be in a hospital it came as a dissapointment. Inside, mold covered the walls and ceilings, blood and feces was sprayed over the courtyard from where they washed the mattresses, sick people scattered all around the halls, and stray dogs roamed about the entrance.

I was feeling anything but confident in the fact that I would survive. If the appendicitis didn't kill me, an infection from this place surely would. I had never seen a place like this, when I think hospital, I think clean, sanitary, smelling of alcohol and chemicals to keep everything sterile. The place smelled of mold, the air was heavy, weighing me down.

On the verge of sepsis, the doctors stuck and IV in my arm and told me that if they didn't operate now, my kidneys would fail, there was no time to think. They wheeled me in to a green room, stripped me naked, pumped the anesthesia into me and I was out.

I awoke, confused and hot. The room I was in, no longer green. Tubes were everywhere, in my nose, stomach, bladder, arm. I felt hazy, disoriented. I looked down to see a poorly stitched frankenstein like gash in my abdomen, swollen and red. My stomach was so bloated that it looked like I was pregnant.

The next seven days were the worst of my life. The first 24 hours without water, and the following five days without food. Unable to walk, I shit and puked on myself in bed, sometimes going a full night without it being cleaned up. Ants crawled all over the room, and the humidity kept me drenched in sweat, unbearably itchy. The part that bothered me the most though, was that I was getting the best treatment in the hospital.

The following is from a note I wrote on my phone while in the hospital:

I have help from friends and family overseas, I’m receiving special treatment, and can act however I want in the hospital because I am a rich white American. The man next to me has a broken and severely infected leg. I see exposed bone, blood, and dirty bandages. Although I cannot completely understand what is going on, his mother is here… she is crying. The family is arguing about an operation and something to do with eating and money. This man might die, he might lose his leg, he like most of the people in this country does not have the resources I have to get everything I possibly need to stay alive. It puts things in perspective. I’m so thankful for all I have. I can’t stop crying.

I returned home to the US after a week in that hospital. I spent six months in and out of the hospital there, dealing with infection and physical therapy to completely rebuild my abdominal wall. I started getting on my feet once I had enough strength again, and doctors cleared me.

I’ve never been more gracious to be able to go on another adventure, but more than that, I’ve never been more humbled and pleased by the perfectly normal, anticlimactic, everyday moments of my life. To simply be healthy, comfortable, and living in a family thats not struggling to survive is a luxury that we take for granted so often. In a world where so many people do not have these basics necessities, I believe all of us that can, should help spread the wealth. Everybody deserves to feel, for lack of better words, normal.

To Lewis, thanks for sticking with me.

[easyfoodnetwork]

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March. Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk. We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper. You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other. We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning. A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume. It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian. This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic. We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible. “Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound. The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition. It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off? Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg. Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it. I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday. And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be. Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess. On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break. But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully. It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves. Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch. Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting. Watching Twister in the backyard When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house. I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling. Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded. We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair. I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water. And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets. We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end. Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that? from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Q7xXiB

http://easyfoodnetwork.blogspot.com/2020/08/the-exhausting-work-of-staycationing.html