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b-else-writes · 4 years ago

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the tiger shark and the sun

New chapter posted for my Star Wars/Avatar the Last Airbender RebelCaptain fusion AU! Strap in folks, this chapter is L O N G.

Read on AO3 | Read from the start

Pairings: Jyn/Cassian, minor Han/Leia and Baze/Chirrut, random minor background pairings

Rating: T

Summary: Star Wars/Avatar the Last Airbender fusion AU. When exiled firebender Jyn Erso lands on his doorstep the day Cassian, last southern waterbender, meets the Avatar, she seems just another obstacle in ending the War against the Fire Nation. An obstacle he would willingly remove. But as their paths keep crossing, and the twins discover that destiny and balance are more than they expect, Jyn and Cassian find that they are more alike than they ever thought possible.

Snippet under the cut! Read the full thing on AO3!

Jedha sat at the confluence of three different regions of the Earth Kingdom. It was large, full of domed buildings and squat homes, denser than anything most of the group had ever seen. Behind them was the triangular shape of the Holy Temple. Statues and relics to some highly specific local Spirit were everywhere, a white buffalo. Cloth hung from every available surface, providing canopies. Fire blasts and desolation riddled buildings, empty gaps where kyber had once shone. They walked quickly through the packed streets.

There were the locals: fair to brown skinned people with thick black hair like Bodhi, tan skinned folk with round faces and ink-black hair in elaborate braids, and fairer skinned people with inky hair and almond eyes. The explosion of greens, browns, yellows, and whites was a riot. Interspersed were robed and masked pilgrims, pale-skinned Fire Nation officials, and the unmistakable armour of Fire Nation soldiers. Wanted posters were plastered over the city: Saw Gerrera, Enfys Nest, the Kestrel, the Avatar, her and Bodhi, deserters, and still, yet more people. The sun was setting and people were still cooking, a heady scent in the air. Voices, shouting, chanting, passports and hands where I can see them, how had the Fire Nation not tamped down on this relentless energy?

It had been a long time since Jyn had been in a city – and she thought perhaps she understood the Fire Lord’s frustration. The city was relentless, it was a gravity that shifted the ground under your feet, that drew in from all around it, for good or ill. There were too many here to control. It was perfect for Saw Gerrera’s Partisans.

Soon, Bodhi drew them towards a plain home in a market area. He rapped a quiet code on the back door. A brown-skinned older woman with greying hair opened the door. She gasped. Then she threw her arms around Bodhi. “Oh, my son,” she said, “My son.”

Bodhi sobbed into her dress. She pressed their foreheads together. They breathed as though they were each becoming part of one another. Bodhi kissed both her palms. Wet-eyed, she ushered them inside. Bodhi and his mother were speaking to each other in one of Jedha’s many languages. She heard her name. Then the older woman turned to them. “My name is Tana Rook,” she said, “Are you here, to save Jedha, Avatar?”

The twins looked at one another. “No, that is – I’m sorry, we -”

She saw Cassian’s haggrd face as he dropped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “We have to meet with Saw, Madam. It’s critical to ending the War.”

They discussed heatedly as Tana pursed her lips. “I’ve never interacted with Saw. Everyone who is still left in Jedha is a rebel in their own way but I don’t -” She broke off, shaking her head. “But I know a girl who runs mercy missions for rebel cells. Hedala Fardi. I know where she works. Tomorrow I can show you.”

“Thank you,” Jyn said.

Tana eyed her and then clucked her tongue. “Aditi! Hema!” Two little girls ran down the stairs. Bodhi regarded them with distant affection. It occurred to Jyn that they had been born long after he had left. She knew he had two other brothers. Working in mines somewhere. A great wave of affection for Bodhi swept over her. Jyn reached forward and squeezed his hand. Tana was instructing them to prepare what space there was for guests and show it to them. “Then I’ll need help to prepare dinner.”

Cassian and Leia immediately stepped towards her. Han and Luke started after the little girls before remembering themselves, and sheepishly joined them. Tana arched an eyebrow. “You certainly aren’t from around here. Erso will help me.”

Uncomfortable, Jyn trailed after her to the indoor kitchen and the wooden cookfire. Tana’s dark eyes watched her as she handed Jyn a cutting knife and a series of vegetables. “What is it?” Jyn asked bluntly.

“I’m trying to see what inspires such loyalty in my son, from someone like you.”

Jyn recoiled. It had always seemed to her, in those five long years, that it had been just the two of them, against the world. You abandoned me, Bodhi had said. It was more than the horse. Jyn said quickly, “What did you mean everyone is a rebel?”

Tana gave a hard smile. “The War is not just won by those on the frontlines, or the Avatar. It is won by the baker who hides the slaves in the store, the guardian who cooks extra for the starving family, the little children who warn of who is coming. And it is lost when those with power choose to do nothing. They will crush you, too.”

And then what, she had asked. And now what? She wanted to ask, anyone, Saw, her father, Bodhi, Cassian…

Tana’s eyes said, you know.

They ate flat bread with spinach and lentil. Jyn swallowed every bite even as she felt sick beneath Tana’s gaze. She was sharing a room, more closet, with the Avatar - Leia. The other woman unrolled her sleeping mat, while Jyn settled herself down on a worn rug. What would have become of her if she had been captured? The next Avatar would be born in Fire, but that was not enough to guarantee her loyalty to the Fire Lord alone. Jyn tried to imagine her growing old in a prison in the Fire Nation, instead of killed outright. “My brother said you saved his life from Tarkin. That’s why he decided to trust you.”

Her tone was neutral. Jyn gave a non-commital shrug. It had not been a selfless decision. As she placed her satchel down as a pillow, the other woman continued.

“Thank you.”

Jyn looked up. The Ava – Leia was looking at her, calculating. “Luke is a nice person,” she said. She flashed her teeth. The implication was clear. To her surprise, Leia continued, “Why did you run messages for Saw Gerrera?”

That paused her. Jyn debated. Then, “My father thought I would be above suspicion as a spy, since I was a child and a hostage.”

A thousand emotions flitted over Leia’s face. “I, we, all were cheated out of our childhoods, too.”

(Jyn loves her father)

“Are you going to kill me, when this is over?” Jyn asked.

“Are you going to hand me over?”

Jyn’s eyes flicked over to where she could hear Bodhi talking outside. She shook her head. Leia’s gaze stripped through her. Then, “No.”

“Why?”

“I think you’re scared,” Leia told her. Leia’s eyes fell on the opposite door, where the men were staying. Jyn stilled. “I think it’s very easy to lie down and let things happen,” she said. “It’s much harder to live for something. And I know who I am, whether I want to be or not. I’m the Avatar. And I’m better than that. I have to be.”

She lay down, trustingly, and said no more. Jyn reached upwards, remembered the necklace was gone. She let her hand drop softly to her side.

#rebelcaptain #dailyrebelcaptain #jyn x cassian #jyn erso #cassian andor #my fic #writing #au: atla #star wars #fanfic

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years ago

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Cooking Solo in the Woods

When an escape to a rural Vermont cabin means scenic beauty, isolation, and hopefully outrunning the stubborn ghost of a five-pound roast chicken that’s been haunting you for weeks

Clio Chang is a freelance writer based in Brooklyn. When not traveling alone, she covers politics, culture, and more.

One night, early in quarantine, I roasted a whole chicken. I had just isolated myself in a friend’s empty one-bedroom apartment, away from my roommates, and was celebrating living alone, however temporarily, for the first time in my life. I bought a five-pound honker, lugged it home in my straining bike bag, and prepared it the same way I usually did: I went heavy on the salt and pepper; skipped the trussing because literally what am I, a chef; threw the chicken over some vegetables; and shoved the whole thing in the oven for a couple of hours. It wasn’t until I sat down to carve and eat it that I realized what I had done. I had made five whole pounds of chicken, plus a Thanksgiving meal’s worth of roasted vegetables, for just one person.

People often feel daunted making big meals to entertain guests, but the hardest task is cooking for one. As I quickly found out, it’s far easier to make too much rather than just enough. And guests will usually lie and tell you something tastes good, on top of bringing over beer and wine to wash down whatever you make.

People often feel daunted making big meals to entertain guests, but the hardest task is cooking for one.

I ate that chicken for weeks. I ate it in sandwiches, I ate it on ramen, I ate it straight out of the refrigerator when I excused myself from a Zoom hang to “grab a beer.” I made broth from the bones, even though I don’t really like broth, because honestly, what better things did I have to do? Eating chicken and chicken byproducts became my job, which I did better than my actual job, from which I was later laid off. And yet I still had chicken left over, a Strega Nona-style cursed reminder that not only was I alone, I was alone alone.

Months later, as I set off for my first trip outside of New York City in four months, I was still thinking about my isolation chicken. I hadn’t left Brooklyn since March, aside from two stints into Manhattan for protests and noodles, and I had imagined it would feel like a satisfying, full-body stretch. It would be my first time driving a car in months, my first time moving more than 30 miles per hour, my first time seeing the green rolling hills that lined the highways on the way to my destination, a small A-frame cabin in the mountains of Vermont that I’d found at the last minute on Airbnb. But all I could really think about was the chicken.

Out of Brooklyn, into the idyllic wilds of Vermont

My goal was to take a vacation — to escape, even for a brief moment — as safely as possible during the pandemic. I would be doing the trip solo, which might feel less like a break and more like a test. I would be taking time for myself after months of having more time to myself than I’d had in my entire life. Why would I want additional time in my own brain, which was already filled with manufactured chicken anxieties?

But I was determined to enjoy my four days off. After all, my world was going to suddenly expand in an explosive way: I would get to see regional billboards, smell the forest air, hear the sounds of nothing at night. I resolved to not ruin it by creating another monster; a constant, edible reminder of the fact that I could not share a space or a table or a trip with my family and friends.

Why would I want additional time in my own brain, which was already filled with manufactured chicken anxieties?

The day I left, Brooklyn was in the middle of a heat wave with little reprieve, and the air was swollen and heavy. Because I was going from a high-density area to a low-density area, I resolved to buy all of my groceries before I got out of the city, stopping at H-Mart on the way. I’d had “make a grocery list” on my to-do list for days, but the ghost of my chickens past did not help me overcome my extreme laziness, and I did not, in fact, “make a grocery list.” With no plan, I ended up buying a random assortment of foods, including four pieces of cooked mackerel, one steak, one conch, 12 clams, a packet of matcha sponge cake, king oyster mushrooms, and the kind of eggplant that is both long and sexy. As I walked out of the grocery store, I passed a Trader Joe’s that had an endless line of people waiting six feet apart to enter. I felt smugly superior until I got to the car and realized that my impulse mackerel purchase was stinking up the whole backseat. A friend, of course, would have gently advised against the idea.

A campfire for one

Lunch at the lake, accompanied by the promise of a lazy summer afternoon

The only thing I hate more than being alone is coordinating with others, so I’ve ended up on many solo trips. Contrary to their premise, solo vacations don’t usually entail being truly alone — in traveling on your own, you open yourself to meeting new people. Any solo vacation movie will tell you this: In Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, Lily James (as a young Meryl Streep) goes off to Greece alone, only to meet and befriend the three men who become co-fathers of her child, one to two Greek people, and a horse. The movie ends with James singing a number with all of her new friends and family, including Meryl Streep (as an old Lily James).

And then there’s Under the Tuscan Sun, which revolves around a recently divorced Diane Lane, sent by friends to go alone on a gay tour of romantic Tuscany. Lane, who is straight, gamely dons a hat that reads “Gay & Away,” and by the end of the movie she ends up with a new house filled to the brim with the patchwork family she has collected on her trip. One of the Polish workers Lane hires to renovate her house sums up her situation most succinctly when he asks her to join them for dinner: “It’s unhealthy to eat alone.”

This trail, while lovely, did not lead to the ghost of Meryl Streep.

Movies tend to exaggerate, but on my own solo vacations, I almost always manage to con someone into being my friend, even if just for a day. But this type of antisocial trip, where I wouldn’t interact with anyone, was new for me. (This particular region of Vermont was also new to me, although one friend helpfully told me that my cabin was two towns away from where she played high school soccer.) I got tested for COVID-19 a week before the trip, but because the results hadn’t arrived when I left, I decided to be extra cautious and avoid seeing anyone when I arrived at my destination. I passed farm stands, imagining all the chats I could have with Polish workers, and spurned pit stops for coffee, thus eliminating the possibility of meeting the ghost of Meryl Streep.

Because I was literally not here to make friends, I ended up inventing them. When I was about an hour from my destination, my car kept flashing an image of a coffee mug and asking me, Do you want to take a break? I thought this was both rude and forward. But I found myself saying back, “No, haha, I’m fine,” somewhat fondly. Ten minutes later, as I craned my neck to look at a billboard advertising fine homemade furniture, my car started screaming “BRAKE! BRAKE!!” I also started screaming and we screamed and slammed on the brake together to avoid hitting the car in front of us, which had slowed down to turn. “Car is friend,” I thought to myself.

Contrary to their premise, solo vacations don’t usually entail being truly alone — in traveling on your own, you open yourself to meeting new people.

When I got to the cabin and stepped outside the car, I was immediately met with a wall of crisp Vermont air. Over the next three days, I would spend most of my time hiking alone, reading under a small covered porch when it rained, or curled up in bed watching TikToks until late in the morning. Away from New York, my new surroundings were a balm, and I found myself wishing I could share them. I showed off the lush trees to friends over FaceTime, and breathed in enough air for a small city. But I resisted the urge to connect: When I trekked to a small, remote pond, I walked a wide circle around the group of teenage boys wrestling to see who could more casually throw themselves off the cliff into the water below. I stuffed away my instinct to talk to anyone, and for a small, brief moment, while I sat in the sun by the water, I felt my brain unspool with the promise of a lazy summer afternoon.

The majority of my time, though, was spent cooking. In the small cabin kitchen I made Taiwanese night market-style king oyster mushrooms, brushing them in a chile soy sauce as they grilled and tossing them with Thai basil and garlic. I made H-Mart marinated short ribs with sauteed Chinese mustard greens on the side. I cooked down the sexy eggplant with a simple teriyaki sauce made from garlic, sugar, and soy sauce, making extra to drizzle over $6 worth of flank steak for one. I also wanted to make pasta al vongole, but realized I had only bought racchette pasta — the type shaped like a tiny tennis racquet for a Hamptons mouse — because I thought it had “vacation” vibes at the time. So I ended up with a dish of clams over tennis racquets.

When your dream of pasta al vongole materializes as a dish of clams over tennis racquets

As the cabin’s only cook and diner and Yelp reviewer, I was acutely over-aware of the quality of every item of food that I made, relishing dishes when I pulled them off and despairing when I made mistakes. The memory of my isolation chicken lingered on the edges of the kitchen — as I cooked, I was careful to curb my impulse to make all the food at once, and instead cut down my portions to a manageable amount for one person. Everything took more time to make and plan than I expected, especially since I was unable to find any Tupperware in the cabin, which meant I was preparing three new meals every day. Unlike at home, I’d have to throw away whatever food I didn’t use. And so I became my own wretched Tupperware, overindulging on each dish.

Yet even though I did everything well, more or less, I still found myself tired of prepping food, cooking it, and cleaning the dishes. Completely removed from my community at home, all of this labor on behalf of myself only became more obvious. I thought about how I used to sit on the floor of my friends’ living rooms, gossiping with their discombobulated voices as they made me dinner in their kitchens. I missed the dishes that my mother would sneak hot peppers into because I “had to learn” how to tolerate spice. I thought about my favorite nights at restaurants, like the time when the table next to us got up and left and our waiter hurried over to inform us that yes, that was, in fact, the Carlos Santana.

I was also upset with myself for thinking these thoughts during a global recession when so many were struggling to feed themselves at all, and for feeling worn out by cooking for myself every day when so many were making food for entire families. I knew these feelings of guilt were useless on their own.

But what I was grasping for wasn’t really a reprieve from cooking. Rather, I missed the person I was around others. Ruth Reichl recently wrote about a night at a Paris restaurant when the maitre d’ whisked away her 8-year-old son to take part in games being organized for the neighborhood children. When her son returned, he told Reichl that he thought it was “a very fine restaurant,” to which she replied that he’d only tried the french fries and cake. “C’mon mom,” her son replied. “You know restaurants aren’t really about the food.” Those words stuck in my head for weeks. It turns out that it’s only really just about the food when you’re cooking for one.

The cabin’s kitchen, small but functional aside from its lack of Tupperware

In my isolation, I also began thinking about the idea of leisure time — specifically, the pervasive American ethos that holds that time off is an extravagance that must be earned. It’s so deeply ingrained that I even felt a pause taking my vacation, as if time off is a scarce natural resource, as if time alone is selfish. But though isolating myself further seemed somewhat redundant, taking a break had made me feel more settled and clear-headed, a feeling that should be more available, not less.

If anything, the pandemic should remind us that everyone deserves leisure time, even if it must be in solitude or at home. There’s something to learn from the countries where our solo vacation movie protagonists escape to — in both Greece and Italy, workers are entitled to 20 days minimum paid vacation every year, while in the United States, workers are guaranteed no paid vacation at all. If there is one thing in Under the Tuscan Sun that makes complete sense, it’s that Diane Lane never returns home.

On the day I left Vermont, I was so sick of planning and preparing food that I ended up eating a breakfast of matcha sponge cake and packed a lunch for the road, also of matcha sponge cake.

If anything, the pandemic should remind us that everyone deserves leisure time, even if it must be in solitude or at home.

As I started the four-hour drive to the city, I felt strangely anxious to get back. I thought about how my generation was once credited with killing both the restaurant industry and vacations, and I laughed imagining someone trying to make that argument now, as our government allowed the pandemic to destroy small businesses and communities with abandon. Even though it would be a long while until I could cook a roast chicken for my family, or meet a friend for drinks at a bar, I knew that being closer to my own community and the businesses I love still felt better than being farther away.

During those four days in Vermont, I found that there was a difference between being alone within a community and isolated from it. In the course of all my complaining, I had forgotten about the times when my friends and I would bring beers or snacks or order a pizza to hang on a stoop or at a park, or the day when my mom taught us how to make scallion pancakes over video chat. I forgot that while I was eating my big chicken, I was often chatting with friends and family over the phone, making that chicken as much a comfort as it was a curse. Even though we constantly had to negotiate with ourselves and each other — eating six feet away, bringing our own glasses, taking dinners to Zoom — we found ways to connect. There are other ways to share a table; by figuring out how, we will be able to start picking up the pieces again.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3kYVXTn https://ift.tt/32axcuI

When an escape to a rural Vermont cabin means scenic beauty, isolation, and hopefully outrunning the stubborn ghost of a five-pound roast chicken that’s been haunting you for weeks

Clio Chang is a freelance writer based in Brooklyn. When not traveling alone, she covers politics, culture, and more.

People often feel daunted making big meals to entertain guests, but the hardest task is cooking for one.

Out of Brooklyn, into the idyllic wilds of Vermont

Why would I want additional time in my own brain, which was already filled with manufactured chicken anxieties?

A campfire for one

Lunch at the lake, accompanied by the promise of a lazy summer afternoon

This trail, while lovely, did not lead to the ghost of Meryl Streep.

Contrary to their premise, solo vacations don’t usually entail being truly alone — in traveling on your own, you open yourself to meeting new people.

When your dream of pasta al vongole materializes as a dish of clams over tennis racquets

The cabin’s kitchen, small but functional aside from its lack of Tupperware

On the day I left Vermont, I was so sick of planning and preparing food that I ended up eating a breakfast of matcha sponge cake and packed a lunch for the road, also of matcha sponge cake.

If anything, the pandemic should remind us that everyone deserves leisure time, even if it must be in solitude or at home.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3kYVXTn via Blogger https://ift.tt/31acGLo

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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materialgirlsfanfic · 7 years ago

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Chapter 10: Affordable Prices To Pay...(Pt. 1)

KIERSTEN

“Boy you’ll be the death of me, you’re my James Dean you make me feel like I’m seventeen…” - BEYONCE X RATHER DIE YOUNG

TWO MONTHS LATER…

“Sweetie, like always when you get into one of your moods you dip off, and close everyone off like we can’t resolve things like adults. Call me back.”

…..

“Bitch! I want to actually see you, IN person for brunch this weekend, mmmkay!? You got London on the verge of tears talking about you keep blowing her off, and even my dad has been asking for you! The project is not that deep, ain’t nobody about to be playing hide and seek with yo’ ass either. Call me hoe!

…..

“Hey Kiersten, its Jessie. Just checking in to see if we’re still good for Friday, at 7pm. We still have to discuss the little things like donors, designs, and the guest appearances for the show. But no worries! We’re almost done with everything. See you soon!”

….

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s dad, I know you may be busy with school, and your work but I wanted to discuss some things with you. I don’t like going this long without out talking to you sweet pea. Let’s do dinner Sunday. Love you, call me soon.”

…….

“Honey, I’m doing an interview with Vogue for Models On Duty, and I’ll be teaming up with June Ambrose and Ashley Graham, I’d love you to be involved. June asked for you. Being as though you aren’t answering me at least. Call her. Back.

……

“Baby girl, I’ll be swingin’ your way shortly. Give me like an hour. I had to meet with this nigga to discuss somethin’ for the club, you know how that goes. But I’m ‘bout to stop at your favorite spot. Let me know what you want.”

……

“It’s your mother again, you know the one that brought you into this world. That was in labor for 16 hours over you Kiersten Stephanie Whitaker! You’re really behaving despicably! Two months! People are asking questions and growing concerned honey, Please!

…….

She was never fond of pet names. Terms of endearment made for coddling, or pacifying sometimes expressed in a condescending manner that made her blood boil. Well pet names from her. She placed her phone down after shooting a few texts out, and deleting the majority of voice messages.

Amongst the seven, three voicemails belonged to the woman that birthed her that bordered hysteria, even at the calmest level of her tone. She could picture Fiona Whitaker swallowed in the high priced mansion where the walls were caving in with her stricken with loneliness. Where she was accompanied solely by a wine bottle, Marlboro cigarettes and a broken heart. Coping methods to perpetuate the sickness that will certainly take more than medical assistance to cure. She was sweetie in a drunken slur on most nights, honey when anger was on the surface of aggravation, and love when on the brink of being dismissed for what her mother deemed as a trivial manner.

Kiersten grimaced, setting down the chiffon material meant for sewing, that she couldn’t even attempt to make happen. She wished the internal battles didn’t always make her the common casualty from her mother’s assaults. So much so, the name coddling was salt poured onto more opened wounds. I’m not a child. Slightly started, she felt the calloused hands caress her shoulders that trailed to her wrist, and finally her hands, spreading them out beneath his large ones.

But when he called her baby? Mmm. Spoken in that gruff bravado was enough to make her knees buckle. The warm fuzzy feeling of contentment growing fonder these past months as she inhaled his distinctive scent of wood and spice.

“What you in here stressin’ about? I can feel that shit all the way from the other room.” Was her transparency that evident? Kiersten smiled smally as his lips reached her temple causing her to get further cocooned.

“I’m not stressing.” What a lie, Kiersten. Do better.

“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Messiah’s eyes boring through her as she attempted at pulling away. The makeshift desk on her vanity made up of her sewing machine, and kit only providing but so much room for her to find an escape out of her gratefully enormous walk in closet. Or as Messiah would put it: ‘Your couture bedroom’. His pronunciation of couture (CAH - tour) always causing to giggle like an idiot.

“Yeahhh.”

“Nah, stay your little ass in place.”

“Come on‘ Si, I’m working. No interruptions when we’re in our zones remember?”

“Na. I ain’t tryna hear all that baby girl. You been in here too quiet, for too long…” She felt the scruffiness of his beard nestle close to her face as they both looked into the vanity mirror, cheeks pressed together. “Damn you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that soooo much. Now, move. I wasn’t quiet but moreso focused.” She pointed down to the mop of materials to sew in front of her. “As you can see.”

“Come on mami. Come take a break.”

“Nooo, Messiah I have a deadline. You’ve been distracting me enough!” She was becoming accustomed to this… routine of there’s for lack of better words. Conforming to the ways of a hermit, Kiersten for the past month shielded away the outside world as she remained ducked and hidden in her condo. With only the exception of classes, work, and random trips to Mood fabric store, she limited herself of any social interaction. Her excuses being senior projects, creative assistant duties, and lastly the silent emergence of depression coasting that she couldn’t get a hold of. So like usual she figured solitude the best remedy. But not to London, and Brooklyne who have boarded stalking by the definition. And she couldn’t blame them. The only form of communication she was accepting was rushed over phone convos, scarce FaceTime calls, and texting at best. But a particular gentleman, a Brooklyn specimen, who wasn’t accepting the limits Kiersten was dishing out, wanted all in.

So from random pop ups, to persistent contact of the physical kind, he was the only one she was really allowing access.

But having a man of Messiah’s caliber coexist in her presence, and actually wanting to be there, was still mind boggling. Wanting to provide an ear, offer consolement to even something so trivial as a missing earring. Where, as if it was second nature or a necessity for the completion of his day, having to know the condition of her well being, and being in close proximity to receive it. Not to mention he always wanted to touch her. Always.

She inhaled a soft breath feeling herself being lifted and pulled to his steel chest, where a pinch to her ass cheek was then given, causing her to squeal.

“Eeeeee! Messiah, stop! Wha- for one I’m entirely too heavy for this, what are you-?”

“Shut that shit up, it look like I’m having a hard time holding you?”

“I didn’t say that, Messiah. I just…okay. I can spare an hour then I have to get right back to work. You’re so impossible, like seriously.” Wedged between the rock solid arms of him, was Kiersten escorted to the confines of her kitchen and sat down on the cool surface of the countertop, causing her to tug at her shorts. Exasperation was displayed as she watched him pull out various items from her cabinets and freezer. So much for that hour break.

“You know what you need, Keeks?” It wasn’t a guess that the question was posed rhetorically, but she now found herself contemplating heavily. What do I need? Her feet swung back and forth waiting, while allowing her eyes to latch onto the define muscles of his back as he maneuvered around the kitchen preparing a meal she had yet to identify.

“Besides these cute fuchsia Manolo pumps I seen, today?”

“…To get out this house…a peace of mind.” They were face to face now. Him coming towards her with a bowl filled with mixed vegetables, and a neutral expression that bordered him examining. Kiersten figeted reaching for the bowl to occupy her hands that she nervously toiled together looking back at him. But he dodged it out of her reach, and locked her in between his hands that framed her, setting the bowl by them. “How long you gon’ be hidin’, usin’ work as a scapegoat?”

“That’s not what I’m doing. So don’t…don’t try and psychoanalyze me, ‘kay?”

“That’s what you think I’m doin’? ‘Psychoanalyzin’ you like you some nutcase, or I’m a shrink?”

“Messi-”

“Nah, fuck that. So I’m not ‘spose to ask these questions? Like I’m not hip to what you doin’. You’re buying time, and shit to avoid what? Tell me why I’m here, if it’s not to be concerned but your damn well being Ki?”

“Listen, okay? I just need you to be…” Here. For as long as I need you to be. With me not having to feel like the other shoe is bound to fall any day now.She felt the emergence of tears, and gritted her teeth, now pushing him back lowering her head.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ coward. We not doin’ that shit. I told you that. Talk to me. Finish what you was about to say, and look at me. You need me to what? Be here? Hold you? Feed you? What? Pacify you? Keep you locked in and throw away the key? What, Kiersten?”

“Just be present!” From that tiny place engulfed in her stomach where the grueling feeling of turmoil resided, was the shout’s source. Messiah remained unmoved and focused, waiting for her to continue. “…like now. Messiah, just continue to make me feel like I’m not going crazy, and by myself. Please.”

He nodded. She exhaled. He cooked. She watched, and the night continued as was.

BROOKLYNE

97…98…99-

“Sorry to disturb you baby girl, but you got a minute?”

Benjamin Pierre’s presence, just like his coffee, was served strong. Like the emergence of the rigid taste of the straight black caffeinated beverage on one’s tongue, as expected it was, it still took you aback. The distinction being that stern. Her father’s deep brown melanin seemingly glowed under any light that further highlighted his strikingly handsome features; the eyes that matched her own stared at her for moments of intensity, with urgency in the midst of. She placed a halt in her morning exercise of 100 plies, and barre work giving him her full attention.

“For my favorite old man, of course. What’s up, pops?”

“Fiona contacted me…” Aw, shit. “What’s this I hear about Kiersten’s blatant refusal to go home?”

“That’s what she told you?”

“Yes, so much more. But that’s just the half.” In Brooklyne’s bedroom at an early 9:43am was a stare off. Meddling in normalcy, but she was sure wasn’t to last much longer as that thick bushy brow of his rose. Following the cross of his arms, and the tilt of his head. But Brooklyne wasn’t London. She didn’t crack under pressure easily or allowed any of Benjamin Pierre’s typical courtroom intimidating tactics to shake her the least bit. After all, I am my father’s child.

“Hm, not sure daddy…that’s strange. Last I spoke to her things were fine. And she was definitely home. FaceTimed her and everything seeing she was right in her bedroom.” Yeah, to pack the last box I was to swing by and pick up to finish decorating.

“Is that right? So when was this?”

“A…couple days ago? Yeah, Tuesday.”

“Hm. Interesting. Look, Brooklyne…two things I need you to understand if you haven’t by now…” Through a sip of her chilled bottle of Fiji water, Brooklyne concealed a gulp of concern. It’s one thing for her father to intimidate for answers, it’s another when he already knew them, she supposed, and was behind the fire of checking. “I find out everything. No matter the time of delay it maybe. No matter the circumstance, I…do. It’s what I get paid for, as you know.”

“Dad-”

“So, if and when you hear from Kiersten again and she turns out to actually be “fine” like you say she is? Tell her to call her mother. Thanks, babygirl.”

Brooklyne flopped on the bed huffing heavily.

“This too much.”

———

You’re missing me, I’m missing you

Whenever we meet, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

When I get to be together with you

It’s fait accompli, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

Slick. The droplets that trailed down his steel abdominals, flexed and illuminated his cream complexion. Under the soft light in the studio his shadow trailed closely behind as it remained in sync with Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep”. Brooklyn seeped in light breaths, as she remained tucked away and hidden by the barre. Taking peeks was growing tiresome like her thighs, she surpassed a little warm up to get started. At this point she was truly stalling. Why am I even doing this?

“So, we startin’ from the second verse…you ready?” Lord knows I’m not.

“Mind explaining to me what’s this for again? I’m not a hip-hop dancer, we know this.”

The heat of his body radiated onto her own as he stepped forward and stood behind her. There in the ceiling to floor mirror was the detection from Brooklyne’s view, trouble. Not a simple attempt of a duet or a pas de deux rather insisted by his mother, her instructor from hell.

“As you know The Joffrey Ballet intensive my mother is instructing has a hiplet component. A mix of hip-hop an-”

“…and Ballet, Tahj. I know, hip-hop on pointe shoes. Yes, she explained this. But why me? Did you insist this little arrangement?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brooke. She did, actually.” She turned to him and searched his face. “I don’t know…for some strange reason she has this idea that you’re good enough. Let’s get this shit over with.”

She sneered at his sarcasm, tying her hair back. An hour in as she began feeling perspiration coat her skin, she was finally able to blur out the ridicule she felt. Taking this exactly for what it was which was simply a dance demonstration for a bunch of high school students that should last no more than four minutes.

“Shit!” A stub of her toe caused her attitude to look less than stellar, as she tripped into an awkward fourth position. From her peripheral she could see his bemusement.

“Don’t overextend your back like that. The fuck you tryin’ to do? Break it?”

“Since when did you become an expert of ballet? Focus on poplockin’ nigga.”

“You forgettin’ who my mother is? You been in her class long enough, to just be makin’ common fuck ups. What…” He walked closer to her side of the studio. “You nervous?”

“I twisted my ankle, right before the senior showcase…the senior showcase that had Juilliard talent scouts, and the director of Ailey in the audience. Guess who was accepted to both? Tahj…don’t insult me. Can we start from the top, please?” She went to her cue in stance of releve with her arms in Egyptian pose.

“…You were perfect.” She would’ve missed it, had it not been so quiet you could hear a mouse piss on cotton, as he muttered it so quickly.

“What?”

“You heard me nigga…that’s what got you accepted, right? Now, from the top.”

#i know it's been 234 years :((((#Clermont twins ff #theclermonttwinsff #heather sanders ff #chris brown ff #chrisbrownff #asap rocky ff

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daveywankenobie · 5 years ago

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I will get the obvious out of the way.

I’m NOT feeling down.

There’s not a single fibre of my being that’s blue, malcontent, irritable, sad, annoyed, dissatisfied or irascible.

I have my mojo back and I’m workin it baby!

Part of my mood is (as always) attributable to a calming (and creative) nearby presence, who – while I write – is creating her own unique little pieces of art and beavering away with pliers and metal next to me.

It’s not at all unusual to see these little ‘jump rings’ floating around the house (occasionally the hoover finds more than it’s fair share) and in a radical departure from how things used to be I now find that I live in a world where (for the very first time in my life) I’m considering and appreciating the aesthetic merits of all kinds of jewellery.

This used to be something I wasn’t particularly keen on.

I have always viewed people (male or female) that were dripping in jewellery as materialistic. I didn’t understand why they needed such (usually golden) things, and for the longest time (mostly because I wanted simplicity but also because I had fat sweaty wrists) I never even wore a watch.

When I make the first tentative attempts to connect with my other half and we began to learn more about eachother I shared my thoughts on such matters.

She replied outright that she had a weakness for jewellery.

My honest thought at the time was ‘uh-oh… I hope she’s not high maintenance…’ but it turned out that nothing could be further from the truth – unless that is you count the endless cups of tea required to keep her running smoothly.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that she made a large amount of the jewellery that she wore herself �� and what she didn’t construct with her numerous tools and materials was usually purchased frugally from very individual and bespoke suppliers.

I realised very quickly when we became closer that the items she owned were pretty much never made of precious metals or set with rare stones (many are constructed with things like Lego!) but each and every item reflected her unique personality and tastes.

Tonight, while I’ve been creating this post she created this chain mail bracelet – and it just blows me away that I have such a quirky and inventive little soul next to me whenever I need cheering up.

I can’t just expect her to deliver my good mood whilst I give nothing in return though.

At times this can be hard and I feel like I’ve struggled a bit in the last few weeks. I’ve had to lean into my partner and other people more than I normally would (which is a natural part of life) but this week I finally feel like I’m making headway again.

As I’ve mentioned in my last few blogs my mindset recently has been a carefully cultivated one that’s taken a lot of effort to turn into something that is once again positive.

After burying my head in the metaphorical sand for a while and packing a good few pounds back on in the process I decided that the only way to tackle the issue I’d created was head on.

I needed to work hard, try at all times to be a ‘can do’ person and follow the Slimming World plan, which for me means no longer giving myself free reign to eat like an idiot.

It also means moving my arse more because not doing so has been a big contributor to my weight gain recently.

So in an effort to change I’ve explored all around Warwickshire this week, and in doing so discovered that despite the cold and grim weather there are still many flashes of colour or interest to be found when you’re out and about.

For a start there are mushroom rings everywhere!

I love that there’s always something new to find when you’re out walking. The natural world changes all the time – and the only thing I never seem to find when I’m outside in it is boredom.

It’s not just the natural world that holds joy and interest mind you.

Getting out and about regardless of where you go is good for the soul because there’s life of many different kinds of life to be found everywhere and lots of people to talk to or just watch as they pass by.

On Friday I walked into Coventry Market with a friend and we spent a while combing through the fruit and veg stalls where the variety and quality of produce puts most supermarkets to shame.

Around one third of these items are completely alien to me. I’ve never cooked with them, and I wouldn’t know where to begin in some cases (particularly with the bitter melon) but I love that we live in such a culturally diverse society that all of the Chinese, Indian and English sellers that were in the market have space for their wares and ALL of them seemed to have a bustling, diverse and above all engaged clientele.

There’s life inside that run down looking building that you can’t find in a supermarket.

Within its walls you can interact with, touch, smell, feel and examine items that aren’t everyday objects – or at least they aren’t to me.

In this environment my childhood returns to me – because a greengrocer was (back then) a daily reality in which potatoes were covered in dirt, cucumbers curled like springs and apples were different shapes colours, tastes and sizes.

Fruits and vegetables had bumps, knobbles and imperfections which I loved and shopping back then didn’t require removal of leaves and mud.

You got to see the way that items looked when they’d been pulled out of the ground – without them being sanitised and shoved in clear plastic to put under 24×7 spotlights.

I absolutely love the naturalness of this scruffy little place – and I can’t believe that until six months ago I’d never ever been there before.

If you haven’t visited yourself then leave your car (or bus) at War Memorial Park and take a walk into town (it’s only a mile away – you can do it!). If you have an Ikea Family card then you can also get a free tea or coffee in their nearby cafe.

If you don’t purchase anything you still get a cheap day out and some exercise – which I’ll admit was the main reason for this discovery in the first place.

This brings me neatly onto my next topic – because If you’re not in calorie deficit and moving about as much as possible then you won’t lose weight.

In my Apple Watch stats I haven’t failed to hit all of my daily exercise goals for over two years – but during the last few months I’ve gradually done a little less every day and eaten either the same amount or more.

My life is a pretty fine balance due to my reliance on rather large portion sizes, and I’ve had to accept recently that I simply cannot get away with eating huge volumes of (very good non processed and natural) free food without then immediately burning it off.

The truth is that although my stats look good they have to be viewed with a bit more of an inquisitive eye.

My walking distance is great – and it’s remained constant throughout the year (now I swim as well) at about eight miles a day.

My average swimming distance shows that I do around 50 continuous lengths of the pool each time I swim, meaning I have great stamina. However what it doesn’t show in this average is that last month I went swimming less times in October than since I started in November 2018.

Bad Davey.

The stats that really can’t lie – and highlight the dip in the number of times I’ve swum are my active energy ones (kcal expended through movement above normal ‘just living and breathing’ levels) and my exercise minutes.

Whilst they’re probably higher than a lot of people’s daily burn they have (by my standards) tailed off lately, and in August (shortly after I handed over to the new MOTY) they pretty much said ‘enough of this sh*t – I’m staying on the sofa.’

As you can see in November I’ve begun to address this – and after a slow start to the month I’m once again cooking on gas. Since weighing in last Saturday I’ve managed to walk 80+ miles and swum 7.5km.

After taking a 12lb gain on the chin last weekend I had two choices – sort it out with activity and a positive mindset or deal with it by burying my face in the fridge.

I’ve therefore been very active and very outdoorsy.

I’ve also cooked every large, hearty meal from scratch and prepared the breakfasts, lunches and dinners for myself and my other half each day (I just love cooking for us both) with feeling satisfied and full in mind.

There have been no complaints from her – and looking back at some of the week’s pictures I think you’ll agree we’ve not gone hungry!

It’s fair to say though that in between these shots an awful lot of plums and carrots also died to service our needs to snack between meals.

There were also some more serious transgressions involved though – and on Thursday I hoovered up 200g of sweet popcorn in one very flexible evening that equalled 44 syns. I refuse to feel guily though. I really enjoyed it – and after some epic exercise genuinely felt I deserved a treat.

I felt absolutely zero guilt.

Neither of us has.

We’ve instead had a pact that’s revolved around promising eacother that we’d focus on our individual sabotaging behaviours and do our level best to support eachothers’ success – which we have.

My partner’s weaknesses and mine are quite different – but we’re the same in that (like most people) we fall down in times of stress or worry. Although it’s been tough for both of us to turn things around it’s also been really empowering to take our bulls by their horns and wrestle them to the floor.

This week – thanks to our individual commitments (and efforts with walking and swimming which have been mutually engaged in as much as possible) this has resulted in huge strides.

We both had big losses on the scales this morning and for the first time in a while since I got my new Slimming World book (which frankly looks like a complete mess to me with its gains and losses) I feel really proud of myself.

This morning I smashed out a 9.5lb loss!

Now – I don’t for a minute think that this is sustainable and I’m sure that at least half of this is fluid rather than fat. I know this because I can feel the bloat and swell when I’m not eating right.

If I change my habits then I pee like a racehorse for a day or two and then I’m magically a few pounds lighter. It’s only after the first couple of days that the real weight loss starts. With this in mind I’ve probably lost about 4-5lbs in real terms.

This is still a fabulous weight loss – but I’m not naive enough to think I’ll get this figure regularly.

I’ve been doing this too long now and I know my body.

When Angie asked my how much I wanted to lose by next week my reply was simply ‘a loss’, because to lose lose two weeks in a row with an initial spurt like that is no easy task and I don’t want to set myself up for a fall.

I don’t want to put anything on or maintain – just a loss is enough for me.

So that’s it.

The result of hard work.

Now to do it over and over again every week until I get back to target!!!!

Davey

Got my mojo back baby! OK I will get the obvious out of the way. I'm NOT feeling down. There's not a single fibre of my being that's blue, malcontent, irritable, sad, annoyed, dissatisfied or irascible.

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years ago

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When an escape to a rural Vermont cabin means scenic beauty, isolation, and hopefully outrunning the stubborn ghost of a five-pound roast chicken that’s been haunting you for weeks Clio Chang is a freelance writer based in Brooklyn. When not traveling alone, she covers politics, culture, and more. One night, early in quarantine, I roasted a whole chicken. I had just isolated myself in a friend’s empty one-bedroom apartment, away from my roommates, and was celebrating living alone, however temporarily, for the first time in my life. I bought a five-pound honker, lugged it home in my straining bike bag, and prepared it the same way I usually did: I went heavy on the salt and pepper; skipped the trussing because literally what am I, a chef; threw the chicken over some vegetables; and shoved the whole thing in the oven for a couple of hours. It wasn’t until I sat down to carve and eat it that I realized what I had done. I had made five whole pounds of chicken, plus a Thanksgiving meal’s worth of roasted vegetables, for just one person. People often feel daunted making big meals to entertain guests, but the hardest task is cooking for one. As I quickly found out, it’s far easier to make too much rather than just enough. And guests will usually lie and tell you something tastes good, on top of bringing over beer and wine to wash down whatever you make. People often feel daunted making big meals to entertain guests, but the hardest task is cooking for one. I ate that chicken for weeks. I ate it in sandwiches, I ate it on ramen, I ate it straight out of the refrigerator when I excused myself from a Zoom hang to “grab a beer.” I made broth from the bones, even though I don’t really like broth, because honestly, what better things did I have to do? Eating chicken and chicken byproducts became my job, which I did better than my actual job, from which I was later laid off. And yet I still had chicken left over, a Strega Nona-style cursed reminder that not only was I alone, I was alone alone. Months later, as I set off for my first trip outside of New York City in four months, I was still thinking about my isolation chicken. I hadn’t left Brooklyn since March, aside from two stints into Manhattan for protests and noodles, and I had imagined it would feel like a satisfying, full-body stretch. It would be my first time driving a car in months, my first time moving more than 30 miles per hour, my first time seeing the green rolling hills that lined the highways on the way to my destination, a small A-frame cabin in the mountains of Vermont that I’d found at the last minute on Airbnb. But all I could really think about was the chicken. Out of Brooklyn, into the idyllic wilds of Vermont My goal was to take a vacation — to escape, even for a brief moment — as safely as possible during the pandemic. I would be doing the trip solo, which might feel less like a break and more like a test. I would be taking time for myself after months of having more time to myself than I’d had in my entire life. Why would I want additional time in my own brain, which was already filled with manufactured chicken anxieties? But I was determined to enjoy my four days off. After all, my world was going to suddenly expand in an explosive way: I would get to see regional billboards, smell the forest air, hear the sounds of nothing at night. I resolved to not ruin it by creating another monster; a constant, edible reminder of the fact that I could not share a space or a table or a trip with my family and friends. Why would I want additional time in my own brain, which was already filled with manufactured chicken anxieties? The day I left, Brooklyn was in the middle of a heat wave with little reprieve, and the air was swollen and heavy. Because I was going from a high-density area to a low-density area, I resolved to buy all of my groceries before I got out of the city, stopping at H-Mart on the way. I’d had “make a grocery list” on my to-do list for days, but the ghost of my chickens past did not help me overcome my extreme laziness, and I did not, in fact, “make a grocery list.” With no plan, I ended up buying a random assortment of foods, including four pieces of cooked mackerel, one steak, one conch, 12 clams, a packet of matcha sponge cake, king oyster mushrooms, and the kind of eggplant that is both long and sexy. As I walked out of the grocery store, I passed a Trader Joe’s that had an endless line of people waiting six feet apart to enter. I felt smugly superior until I got to the car and realized that my impulse mackerel purchase was stinking up the whole backseat. A friend, of course, would have gently advised against the idea. A campfire for one Lunch at the lake, accompanied by the promise of a lazy summer afternoon The only thing I hate more than being alone is coordinating with others, so I’ve ended up on many solo trips. Contrary to their premise, solo vacations don’t usually entail being truly alone — in traveling on your own, you open yourself to meeting new people. Any solo vacation movie will tell you this: In Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, Lily James (as a young Meryl Streep) goes off to Greece alone, only to meet and befriend the three men who become co-fathers of her child, one to two Greek people, and a horse. The movie ends with James singing a number with all of her new friends and family, including Meryl Streep (as an old Lily James). And then there’s Under the Tuscan Sun, which revolves around a recently divorced Diane Lane, sent by friends to go alone on a gay tour of romantic Tuscany. Lane, who is straight, gamely dons a hat that reads “Gay & Away,” and by the end of the movie she ends up with a new house filled to the brim with the patchwork family she has collected on her trip. One of the Polish workers Lane hires to renovate her house sums up her situation most succinctly when he asks her to join them for dinner: “It’s unhealthy to eat alone.” This trail, while lovely, did not lead to the ghost of Meryl Streep. Movies tend to exaggerate, but on my own solo vacations, I almost always manage to con someone into being my friend, even if just for a day. But this type of antisocial trip, where I wouldn’t interact with anyone, was new for me. (This particular region of Vermont was also new to me, although one friend helpfully told me that my cabin was two towns away from where she played high school soccer.) I got tested for COVID-19 a week before the trip, but because the results hadn’t arrived when I left, I decided to be extra cautious and avoid seeing anyone when I arrived at my destination. I passed farm stands, imagining all the chats I could have with Polish workers, and spurned pit stops for coffee, thus eliminating the possibility of meeting the ghost of Meryl Streep. Because I was literally not here to make friends, I ended up inventing them. When I was about an hour from my destination, my car kept flashing an image of a coffee mug and asking me, Do you want to take a break? I thought this was both rude and forward. But I found myself saying back, “No, haha, I’m fine,” somewhat fondly. Ten minutes later, as I craned my neck to look at a billboard advertising fine homemade furniture, my car started screaming “BRAKE! BRAKE!!” I also started screaming and we screamed and slammed on the brake together to avoid hitting the car in front of us, which had slowed down to turn. “Car is friend,” I thought to myself. Contrary to their premise, solo vacations don’t usually entail being truly alone — in traveling on your own, you open yourself to meeting new people. When I got to the cabin and stepped outside the car, I was immediately met with a wall of crisp Vermont air. Over the next three days, I would spend most of my time hiking alone, reading under a small covered porch when it rained, or curled up in bed watching TikToks until late in the morning. Away from New York, my new surroundings were a balm, and I found myself wishing I could share them. I showed off the lush trees to friends over FaceTime, and breathed in enough air for a small city. But I resisted the urge to connect: When I trekked to a small, remote pond, I walked a wide circle around the group of teenage boys wrestling to see who could more casually throw themselves off the cliff into the water below. I stuffed away my instinct to talk to anyone, and for a small, brief moment, while I sat in the sun by the water, I felt my brain unspool with the promise of a lazy summer afternoon. The majority of my time, though, was spent cooking. In the small cabin kitchen I made Taiwanese night market-style king oyster mushrooms, brushing them in a chile soy sauce as they grilled and tossing them with Thai basil and garlic. I made H-Mart marinated short ribs with sauteed Chinese mustard greens on the side. I cooked down the sexy eggplant with a simple teriyaki sauce made from garlic, sugar, and soy sauce, making extra to drizzle over $6 worth of flank steak for one. I also wanted to make pasta al vongole, but realized I had only bought racchette pasta — the type shaped like a tiny tennis racquet for a Hamptons mouse — because I thought it had “vacation” vibes at the time. So I ended up with a dish of clams over tennis racquets. When your dream of pasta al vongole materializes as a dish of clams over tennis racquets As the cabin’s only cook and diner and Yelp reviewer, I was acutely over-aware of the quality of every item of food that I made, relishing dishes when I pulled them off and despairing when I made mistakes. The memory of my isolation chicken lingered on the edges of the kitchen — as I cooked, I was careful to curb my impulse to make all the food at once, and instead cut down my portions to a manageable amount for one person. Everything took more time to make and plan than I expected, especially since I was unable to find any Tupperware in the cabin, which meant I was preparing three new meals every day. Unlike at home, I’d have to throw away whatever food I didn’t use. And so I became my own wretched Tupperware, overindulging on each dish. Yet even though I did everything well, more or less, I still found myself tired of prepping food, cooking it, and cleaning the dishes. Completely removed from my community at home, all of this labor on behalf of myself only became more obvious. I thought about how I used to sit on the floor of my friends’ living rooms, gossiping with their discombobulated voices as they made me dinner in their kitchens. I missed the dishes that my mother would sneak hot peppers into because I “had to learn” how to tolerate spice. I thought about my favorite nights at restaurants, like the time when the table next to us got up and left and our waiter hurried over to inform us that yes, that was, in fact, the Carlos Santana. I was also upset with myself for thinking these thoughts during a global recession when so many were struggling to feed themselves at all, and for feeling worn out by cooking for myself every day when so many were making food for entire families. I knew these feelings of guilt were useless on their own. But what I was grasping for wasn’t really a reprieve from cooking. Rather, I missed the person I was around others. Ruth Reichl recently wrote about a night at a Paris restaurant when the maitre d’ whisked away her 8-year-old son to take part in games being organized for the neighborhood children. When her son returned, he told Reichl that he thought it was “a very fine restaurant,” to which she replied that he’d only tried the french fries and cake. “C’mon mom,” her son replied. “You know restaurants aren’t really about the food.” Those words stuck in my head for weeks. It turns out that it’s only really just about the food when you’re cooking for one. The cabin’s kitchen, small but functional aside from its lack of Tupperware In my isolation, I also began thinking about the idea of leisure time — specifically, the pervasive American ethos that holds that time off is an extravagance that must be earned. It’s so deeply ingrained that I even felt a pause taking my vacation, as if time off is a scarce natural resource, as if time alone is selfish. But though isolating myself further seemed somewhat redundant, taking a break had made me feel more settled and clear-headed, a feeling that should be more available, not less. If anything, the pandemic should remind us that everyone deserves leisure time, even if it must be in solitude or at home. There’s something to learn from the countries where our solo vacation movie protagonists escape to — in both Greece and Italy, workers are entitled to 20 days minimum paid vacation every year, while in the United States, workers are guaranteed no paid vacation at all. If there is one thing in Under the Tuscan Sun that makes complete sense, it’s that Diane Lane never returns home. On the day I left Vermont, I was so sick of planning and preparing food that I ended up eating a breakfast of matcha sponge cake and packed a lunch for the road, also of matcha sponge cake. If anything, the pandemic should remind us that everyone deserves leisure time, even if it must be in solitude or at home. As I started the four-hour drive to the city, I felt strangely anxious to get back. I thought about how my generation was once credited with killing both the restaurant industry and vacations, and I laughed imagining someone trying to make that argument now, as our government allowed the pandemic to destroy small businesses and communities with abandon. Even though it would be a long while until I could cook a roast chicken for my family, or meet a friend for drinks at a bar, I knew that being closer to my own community and the businesses I love still felt better than being farther away. During those four days in Vermont, I found that there was a difference between being alone within a community and isolated from it. In the course of all my complaining, I had forgotten about the times when my friends and I would bring beers or snacks or order a pizza to hang on a stoop or at a park, or the day when my mom taught us how to make scallion pancakes over video chat. I forgot that while I was eating my big chicken, I was often chatting with friends and family over the phone, making that chicken as much a comfort as it was a curse. Even though we constantly had to negotiate with ourselves and each other — eating six feet away, bringing our own glasses, taking dinners to Zoom — we found ways to connect. There are other ways to share a table; by figuring out how, we will be able to start picking up the pieces again. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3kYVXTn

http://easyfoodnetwork.blogspot.com/2020/08/cooking-solo-in-woods.html

#EasyFoodNetwork #ComfortFoodRecipes #EasyRecipes #GoodFood #BestComfortFoodRecipes #TastyFoodv

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