#also her recipe for a really delicious chocolate almond cake

[nuagederose]

As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Forty-One: Diamond Heart

ao3 link

“This is fantastic.”

It was a quarter to nine in the evening, after a hearty dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes prepared by Wendy, and Christine and Alex had already eaten dinner at her apartment, and she opened the piece of Tupperware with the babka inside. Just as Valentina had recommended, Christine served it on a small plate with some whipped cream to give it a little more nuance lest the cake dried out over the course of the day. But Alex indulged in the small slice of babka that she had given him, and with each and every bite, it seemed as though he was having the biggest sense of euphoria in his life, the biggest orgasm he could have for himself.

He closed his eyes and let the tines of the fork stay in between those lush cherry lips as if he had come down on her between her legs. The smell of cinnamon was utterly intoxicating from his plate as well as inside of the Tupperware; Christine propped her head up onto her chin and watched him with intent.

“Mmm, oh, god,” he muttered at one point. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip to rid of the extra whipped cream. “God damn. Nothing beats the real thing from the hands of a Jewish grandmother.”

“Did your grandma ever make it?” she asked him.

“Once in a while,” he replied in between bites. “It's kind of a bitch to make, like there's a lot of preparation ahead of time and a lot of work that goes into it. It's like this whole affair that takes place over the course of a couple of days. The last time I actually had babka—chocolate babka, which I actually like better than cinnamon—was from my grandmother and my mother. I was twenty five. It was delicious. The challah bread part was perfect, and the chocolate melted in your mouth. Silky and lush and... sensual, even. I know, that word sounds weird in junction with my grandmother and my mother, but it's true. It warmed me up from the inside out, and I remember leaning back in my chair with my hands on either side of my plate and just letting my belly hang out over my belt. This was back when I didn't have the pot on me now: I was still really slender and trim, so imagine how good it felt. If I remember correctly, I think I actually unbuttoned my pants, too.”

She chuckled at that, and then he took another bite.

“Is it just chocolate and cinnamon?”

“Oh, no, you've got apple, and cheese—like a cheese danish—and cinnamon raisin, and I think there's also a poppy seed variation and other kinds made with different jams and pastes like almond paste. I've always wanted to try the cheese one in particular, just because of the reminiscence to cheese danishes.” He took one last bite, that time with his eyes closed. He leaned back in the chair and unbuttoned his pants, and then he ran his fingers through his hair.

“That's the good stuff right there,” he said to her in a low voice, and he put his hands behind his head.

“So cute,” she remarked as she leaned over for a little loving pat.

“That was really good meatloaf, too,” he remarked. “Your mom knows how to do it.”

“I've been trying to get it out of her since I was like... thirteen,” she confessed with a shake of her head. “She never tells me about it.”

“She should tell you,” he quipped. “You're her daughter, for god's sake. She should, at the very least, tell you.”

“Did you ever get the recipe for the babka out of your grandmother?”

“I don't bake. I can barely cook as is—forget it with baking.”

“You ought to. Do you know how sexy that would be? Being a teacher, a musician, and a baker at the same time?” He chuckled at that. “It's true, though,” Christine insisted. “Do you know how much you could turn me on by being a triple threat like that?”

“Triple threat, eh?” he echoed her with a twinkle in his eye and a raise of his eyebrow. “How would you feel if I told you I'm also a writer? Or have I told you that already?”

“I don't remember you telling me that,” she confessed.

“But I'm a writer, though,” he replied as he took his hands from behind his head and rested them on his belly. “I'm a triple threat as is.”

“So you could be a quadruple threat,” she corrected herself.

“Oh ho ho, that'd be something.” He nodded his head and gave his belly a gentle massage. “You know what I really want right now? And it's a shame because I actually didn't think about this coming over here earlier: a bottle of wine.”

“Ooh, yeah, like a nice dessert wine,” she said.

“Exactly! That's my girl.”

“Does your mom have any?” And then he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, yeah, that's right.”

“Yeah, my parents are both recovering alcoholics. In fact, the very last drink my mom had was one of those cheap box wines you get at the grocery store.”

“Ew, yuck.” He grimaced and shook his head at that. “If I drank that, I'd sober up, too.” They both laughed at that.

“My dad's last drink was gin,” she continued.

“I don't think I've ever had gin,” he confessed. “All I know is it's pungent, like you can smell it from clear across the room. I remember smelling it once and I thought, 'no way. Like beer and wine are enough, thank you.'” He fetched up a sigh and shifted his weight in the chair. “Phew. I think I overdid it.”

“You were going to town on that meatloaf and that babka,” she pointed out. “Like, you were making love to both of them.”

“Speaking of making love,” he began. Christine ran her tongue along her bottom lip at the mere suggestion of that.

“What?” she asked him with a little grin on her face.

“I'm sitting here leaning back with my pants undone and my legs wide open,” he told her with a straight face, but she could see the look in his eyes, the one laced with his venom. The glasses perched on the tip of his nose only added to it. “Don't you think it'd be an opening for you make love to me and my body.”

“Make love to you and that little belly of yours,” she followed along. He then leaned forward in the chair with his hands rested on either side of the seat: his hair floated down over his shoulders if it was made of lace. The way the light overhead hugged the shape of his body and the crown of his head to give it a golden glow.

“I want to know what you would do to me,” he confessed to her in a near whisper.

“Well, I'd kiss you all over for starters. And then I'd move my mouth down to your dick after I give you some kisses on your tummy.” He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Any touches there would lead me to below the belt, and I can tell you that without even thinking twice about it. Especially when I know how delicate you are there.”

Alex nudged his glasses back up his nose and then leaned back in the chair again. Christine lowered her gaze down to his pants once again, and in particular the way that the fly hung open below his waist. She could lurch forth with her hand under his shirt and then down inside of his pants within a few minutes with no questions asked.

“Tell me, Christine,” he began again. “What is happening in that heart of yours? That broken, barricaded heart of yours? Surely there has to be something other than the complete and utter unbridled raw lust that absolutely ravishes you on a regular basis.”

“I'd have to tell you through the journal assignment that we're supposed to do for you in French literature,” she quipped with a wag of her finger.

“I'm not gonna read the journals,” he assured her, “but the essay part of it. That should be equally fun, though.”

“You don't have an aide?” He shook his head. “I want an aide. But part of getting the full-time position is to... just have your eyes on it first. If you do it right, you can probably get an aide in the future. Barring if I stay in French lit.”

“How do you like it, by the way?”

“I like it a lot,” he confessed. “It's not music theory or jazz—I'd love to take either of those in the future adjacent to lit.”

“Or both.”

“Or both! Ha!”

“Then you'd be a triple threat!” she quipped, and he burst out laughing at that. Christine inched her chair closer to him, especially when she noticed his eyes drooping. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the evening, and yet he was already getting sleepy.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked her.

“Let me just touch you again,” she admitted with her hand extended over to him. “Because when I patted you, I noticed that you're actually very warm there.”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I'm about as warm as they come. Two big helpings of the meatloaf and potatoes, and that babka... stick a fork in me, I'm toasty and warm straight out of the oven.” Christine placed her hand on the fullest part of his belly and gently rubbed him there.

“Ooh, that's good,” he gasped. “It really is like getting a hand job. A hand job but on steroids.”

She leaned down closer to him. “How do you feel?” she whispered into his ear.

“It's like all of the times you've ever kissed me,�� he told her. “It always gets me hot and bothered. It gives me such a silky feeling in my stomach and makes me move a little down below.”

“Do you always think of my kisses?”

“Always. Without a doubt. It's always the way that you do it, too. It's like the way Henry Miller would always think of Nin during their affair, when he was with June—he would always think of her instead. No doubt that she had wriggled her way into his mind the way that you have with mine.”

“Did she ever stuff him to the gills as part of seducing him?”

“I don't think she did,” he confessed with a nudge of his glasses up his nose. “Although she would probably see that as interesting. She would want to know why you find the things erotic to be so... erotic.”

Christine moved her hand up to the side of his face so he could look at her in the eye.

“Would she want to know how I kiss you?” she asked him.

“I would think so,” he lowered his voice to that whispery tone again. “I think she would want to analyze every single one of your kisses.”

“Like this one?” She pressed her lips onto his, and she slipped in a little bit of tongue. She moved back to look into his face, and his chest rose and fell from the feeling.

“Definitely.”

“Or this one?” Slowly, she moved back in for a second one, and that time she let her tongue go deep into his mouth. He slid his feet under the table out of surrender to the feeling. Christine very slowly moved her lips away from his, and she let her tongue slither forth like that of a snake. A soft blush crossed his face and he left his lips slightly parted at the mere sight of her.

“Oh…” His chest heaved a bit as if he had just ran up a flight of stairs. “Oh, god. That was…” He turned his head away and ran a hand down his full belly. “…phew.”

“Really sexy?”

“Oh, god, that was…” He fanned himself with the side of his hand. “…that got me all kinds of hot.”

Christine chuckled at that.

“Why don’t you take a shower?” she offered him as she tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Take a shower and I’ll clean up here.”

“After those kisses, I’m gonna need some cold water like you wouldn’t believe,” he quipped with a low whistle and a running of his fingers through his hair.

She offered to help him up to his feet but he assured her he had it in his control. As she put the remaining meatloaf away and rinsed out the Tupperware, she thought about him in that shower, completely naked and dripping wet. The way the water caressed his body and his hair, the softness and silken nature of his skin.

The feeling burgeoned within her but she also wanted to curl up in bed next to him, especially on such a cold wintry night. It was difficult to even concentrate on putting the meatloaf away and into the refrigerator.

She swore that it was only a few minutes when he switched off the shower. She considered surprising him with her pajamas when she could hear his footsteps in the hallway. Christine dried off her hands with her hand towel and turned around to find him there in the kitchen doorway, wearing nothing but a clean towel around his hips: the break in the towel looked to be an inch from his crotch; the hem remained below his belly button so she could see the complete roundness of his middle. She clasped a hand to her head.

“Like what you see here, my Strawberry Girl?” he asked her as he nudged his wet hair back from the side of his neck.

She stuck out her pinky finger and her thumb to imitate the shape of a phone and brought it to her ear.

“Hello, police? There’s a very big, very sexy naked man in my apartment and he is dripping wet on my kitchen floor.”

Alex busted out laughing at that, and she ran her fingers through her hair.

“I don’t know about you but I’m kind of ready for bed,” he confessed as he brought his hands to his hips. “I’m very full and clean, although it is still early. I do have my nylon guitar with me, but I don’t really know how people in the building here will react to it.”

“Do you have any books with you?” she asked him.

“Not on me, no,” he replied with one hand on his bare belly. “You do, though.” Christine tucked her hands into her back pockets and lingered closer to him.

“Indeed, I do,” she said in a low voice.

“Yeah, you’re feeling cozy, aren’t you?”

“I guess you could say I am. Just before you walked in, I thought of slipping into something more comfortable.”

“Please do,” he told her, and he never moved his hand. “I shall do the same. We can get cozy together under the covers.” Christine licked her lips and eyed his body, and then she leaned in closer to his face as if to give him a kiss. But then she hesitated, and he raised an eyebrow.

“A little teasing?” he whispered. “That’s new.”

She puckered her lips at him, and then she ducked back into the hall and eventually to her room for a clean black velvet camisole over her body. She thought of putting on pajama bottoms, but she rested a hand on her panties and smiled to herself.

Christine tousled her hair a bit before she strolled out of the room and made her way into the front room where Alex was putting on flannel pajamas and nothing else. She ran her fingers down the curvature of his back right as he spritzed a little cologne on his neck.

“Ooh, that was luscious,” he noted as he put the cap back on and stuck it back in his overnight bag in the couch. He turned towards her and gasped at the sight of her. “Cute! So very cute.”

“You look really cute, too,” she decreed as she lovingly patted his bare belly. Alex nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and showed her a little smirk. Christine sashayed her hips as she walked back to her bedroom; Alex lingered back to lock the front door and switch off the light. She stood by her bedroom door and awaited him with one hand to her hip and the other hand up next to the door frame.

He emerged from the darkness with his thumbs tucked down inside of the waistband of his pajama bottoms as if to bring attention to his hips.

“Shall we?” she asked him.

“Let’s get in bed, my dear.”

Christine led him into the comfort of her room, to which he left the door slightly ajar. She nudged the box with the old books and things off to the side, and yet he never asked her about it. She peeked back the covers and let him climb into bed first: Alex took his spot in the edge of the mattress and pushed on the top with his hand.

“This is comfy,” he remarked, and Christine climbed over the foot of the bed to join him on the other side. She lay down with her back to the wall and he lay down next to her, flat on his back.

“My very own teddy bear for the night,” she breathed out, and he nestled down on the bed to get himself comfortable. Alex took off his glasses and lay them on the desk next to the bed, and then he rolled over onto his side to be face to face with her. Christine reached down for the blankets, and she cuddled down next to him: her bare legs brushed against the flannel of his pants such that it sent a shiver up her spine.

“Really comfy bed,” he whispered to her.

“It really is,” she agreed. “I always lay down here and I go right to sleep, even after a high intensity day—you know, those days where you think you can't go to sleep the night before.”

“Oh, yeah, those,” he said as he nestled down next to her. The blankets accentuated the full, avocado shape of his body; a lock of black hair dangled down over his face, such that he looked rather boyish and soft. She kept her arm out over the top of the comforter to feel him.

“You have really lovely hips,” she remarked. “Gorgeous hips and thighs. You're very full there.”

“Love how you describe it as 'full',” he said.

“Very big and round,” she added as she stroked the back of his thigh. She inched closer to him so her body was up against his own. While under the covers, he put his arm around her and held her close to his body. There was a part of her that wondered if the evening was still too early to lie in bed together.

“I feel like we should be doing something here,” she confessed.

“Christine, it's almost ten o'clock at night. I have a belly absolutely filled to the brim with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and cinnamon babka, the latter of which I haven't eaten since my late twenties—the last good babka much further back than that. I am so full and well-fed right now that I feel like I could roll right You know I'm up for anything as long as it makes you happy.”

“As long as it makes me happy?” she asked him as she gazed into his face.

“Yeah. This is your apartment, too. I'm a guest: it's only fair to you if you want love or not.” She pursed her lips at that, especially as she flexed her fingers on the back of his thigh, which in turn made him stick out his tongue to her.

“Can we cuddle?” she asked him.

“Oh, you know I'm always up for a nice little cuddle,” he assured her with a little smile. “Shall I turn off the light?”

“Please do…” Alex reached up and switched off the light in the desk. Once the darkness wrapped around them like a blanket in and of itself, they nestled down together in her bed. Christine tucked her arm under the covers so she could better feel his warmth.

“Oh, god, you're so warm,” she breathed. “So soft.”

“You can touch me if you want,” he whispered to her, and she moved her hand to between his legs to feel him there. Last thing she remembered, she had fallen asleep with her hand still there.

She swore that she felt his lips on her own as she lay on her back on his desk. He was teaching jazz music theory, and he was feeling hot on top of everything else. That velvet tongue between her legs as he taught her a few licks from the greats, his body next to her as Miles Davis played softly in the background behind them and she found herself down below his belt with her tongue for him. For a second, she swore that his black hair became curly, and his bright eyes darkened to that rich brown again.

For a second, she believed that she had been reunited with Chris yet again, and they had found the time in the classroom, and in front of everyone. Music theory mixed with sex education for an unlikely cocktail that only Alex could make for her.

She woke up to the feeling of her own fingers running along the soft, round part of his belly, right around his belly button. She had no idea that she had been asleep for that long as she was met with gray sunlight through the curtains over her desk.

Alex groaned from the feeling of her fingers on his bare skin; he shifted his weight there next to her as she moved her hand to below his waist, where his skin resembled the softest silk she never found.

“I’ll give you like… ten years to stop that,” he told her in a voice broken with sleep. “That feels really good.”

“You have such a sexy voice,” she confessed to him. “It’s so warm and round. Like your body.”

“Even when it’s like this?” he asked her with a slight clearing of his throat.

“Even when it’s like that,” she echoed him. He finally opened his eyes to face her, and he cracked her a smile.

“I don’t think either of us moved all night,” she suggested as she touched his chest.

“Yeah, you were not kidding in the slightest when you said this bed is comfy.”

“And… I assume with me next to you like this.”

“Oh, you bet,” he whispered to her, and then he wrinkled his nose. “Damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I gotta use the bathroom. Early in the morning after we had gone to bed early, yeah, definitely.” Christine still pressed her lips onto his own for a second before he climbed out of bed, and he showed her a little smirk at that. Once Alex left the room, she turned to the clock on her desk.

“Almost six o’clock, wow,” she muttered as she climbed out of bed to make the covers and get dressed. Once she had a sweater on in lieu of her big green coat, Alex strode into the room with his clothes slung over one shoulder and the waist of his pajama bottoms down below his waist to accentuate the roundness of his body. 

“So cute!” she exclaimed.

“You should have seen me right before Christmas,” he said with a running of his fingers through his hair. “My pants were actually snug on me.” He then rubbed his hands together. “So, do we have anything for breakfast?”

“Not at the moment,” she replied. “It being Saturday, I usually go over to my mom’s place across the hall for breakfast and then she and I go grocery shopping. I don’t even have a coffee maker.”

“You should get one,” he advised her. “Coffee at school is good but it’ll cost you after a time. I’ll get you one.”

“Oh, no, Alex, you don’t have to do that,” she quipped with a shake of her head.

“I insist! I’m getting paid more now, so I’ll get you one. I’ll find you a colorful one, you being a colorful person and whatnot. Early birthday present.”

Christine put a hand to her chest and tilted her head to the side.

“That is so sweet,” she said in a soft voice, and she strode over to him. She gently rested a hand on his belly and raised herself on her toes to kiss his neck. “So, so sweet…”

“I assume I’m going to have to put a shirt on,” he quipped with a soft blush in his face.

“It would be so cute if you went over there with me like this, though,” she joked, and he chuckled at that.

“What would your mother think?” he asked her with a raise of his eyebrows.

“If my mom asks, you just came over for breakfast,” she told him. “And… you did!”

He chuckled again, and she gave him another kiss on the neck to catch him off guard.

“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered to him, and then she strolled out of the room to give him privacy. And yet, she could still hear him put his pants on as well as a clean shirt and his sweater. When he surfaced from her bedroom, she was already eager to find what Wendy had in store for them across the hall.

Alex helped himself to a cup of coffee and a little omelette that she made for him, while Christine took to some scrambled eggs and sourdough toast with gooseberry jam on top.

“Oh, man, that looks delicious,” he noted as Christine spread the jam on the bread.

“Be careful with it, too, Chris—that jar’s not cheap,” Wendy advised her as she rested a pan filled with cobbler between the three of them.

“Oh, my,” Alex noted.

“Hope you two saved room for more afterwards,” Wendy said as she took her seat, and she turned to Christine right as she relished in her toast. “Especially since you and I are going to be out and about all day. Some blackberry cobbler made just yesterday afternoon!”

“So, that’s why it smelled so good over on this side of the building,” she recalled with one hand over her mouth.

“Babka with whipped cream the night before and blackberry cobbler the very next day for brunch, it's like you wanna fatten me up,” he teased her.

“Oh, keep frequenting over here and we're going to make you as plump as a Christmas goose, dear Alex,” Wendy promised him with a sly smile. “Unless you want to do something for yourself to balance things out.”

“Nah, I would rather indulge in something like this than not eat anything,” he said with a shake of his head. The three of them did in fact indulge in the cobbler, and at that point, Alex looked ready to fall asleep in his chair.

“I don’t know if I can make it home,” he confessed with a hearty chuckle. “I feel like I’m about ready to roll around on the floor.”

“I can call a cab, if you’d like,” Wendy sweetly suggested. Christine eyed Alex’s hand rested on his belly again, as well as the lush shape of his body, even lusher from the night before. It was then she had another journal entry in the wings.

“I have to brush my hair, change my clothes, and check some things for school,” she told her mother.

“We’ll be right here,” Wendy assured her with a wink. Christine took one final sip of her coffee before she left the apartment and ambled across the hall to change her clothes and put on her shoes. However, she sat down at her desk, and she took the robin’s egg blue journal out of her bag, and she plunked it open to a fresh page. With her pencil in her hand, she believed that she couldn’t write anything.

But then the words flooded out of her like the streets following a torrential downpour.

I've been lying. I've been lying to you, Alex. I wish I wasn't lying to you. I've been lying to myself, too.

I hate that I've been lying to you, too, because you deserve the truth. You're a good guy and you deserve the truth and every single iota of it. I hate that I feel like I can't tell it to you because it should be obvious but alas, it isn't.

I just wish I could tell you the truth about how I feel about you, Alex. I wish I could say it to your face without feeling like a complete idiot in the process. I really do feel like an idiot every time I think about it.

I really love you. I am really, truly in love with you. It would make me so sick to see you with another woman, and it makes me sick thinking and realizing you're with her. 

You are the love of my life.

I just want you for myself. I know, that's greedy and shitty and awful but I can't candy coat anything, though. I dream too much. I fantasize too much. But that’s the truth about you, though. This is what you do to me, Alex. I think of so much, of books to read, of movies that I love, of friends and people to see and things to learn but I always find my way back to you.

I don’t know, I’m not an artistic person by any means, and I’m trying hard to understand what it is that you see in me about it, but I want to draw you. I want to paint you. I want to kiss every inch your body and soul with art. I’m sorry, that’s too much. I know you won’t see this, but I’m apologizing anyway.

I love you. I want to lay next to you. I think of last night, when you and I were sharing my bed together, and I get that “silky feeling in my stomach” like what you said to me. A little pit in the belly that cascades down to between the legs and everything goes crazy inside.

You drive me crazy. You drive me wild. You make me want to cross some lines and do things I would never in my wildest dreams do. You bring the fire to the swirling, whirling whirlpool inside of me to the point it dances about and it drives me insane.

Let’s walk together on the beach in the springtime. Let’s walk and hold hands.

I can wear a bikini and you can wear your shorts with your shirt open to let your belly hang out in all its sexy glory.

Let’s walk together in the Poconos in the autumn. Let’s walk together and have some apple cinnamon toast and ginger snaps, and then have soup under the tree. Lay your head on my lap and let me stroke your hair and kiss your forehead.

I’m coming off too strong. I always do. But I have this fucking burning feeling inside of me. Burning with the torrential feeling of raging waters. Goddamn it, I WANT YOU.

Let me be yours. I am yours. In fact you said that yourself. I’m yours, and you’re mine. Fuck, I live across the hall from my mother. I know you think it’s lovely, but there’s no denying my own trembling disposition when I think of you. I’ll admit that I’m immature and that I need time, but I’ll admit that. I need to be around you more, not just while in school and definitely not the version of you that exists in my head, either.

The you that exists in my head. Oh, god, the you that exists in my head! I don’t have that many friends—I have friends just not that many—and I admit to feeling wary about talking about you to my parents: my mom doesn’t even know that you and I are a thing. I feel like the you that exists in my head is all that I’ve really got.

When I stayed the night with Valentina last night, and we had that babka, I thought of you. I knew you would like it. In fact, I love how you love to eat. I want to get you a new guitar. I want to make you a strap for it, too, like actually make a strap: find myself a book on leather work and study it so I can craft you a strap for the guitar, or for your nylon.

I want to bake you a pie, especially with Nelly being AWOL for another few weeks, a nice big pie to fill your gorgeous belly. I want you to eat.

And yet, I really love your body no matter what size you are. I would be in love with your body if you got very fat, and I would be in love with your body if you lost a hundred pounds and got skinny. 

I think about the young version of you, the slim beautiful boy with the long black curls. I would date you. I would date the shit out of you. I would take a hold of you and never let you go. To have my arms around that slim, delicate waist and always kiss you. So sexy and cute at the same time.

To kiss those young lips, lips like sugar cane and saltwater taffy, lips like the ripest fruit from the tree.

I wish I was good at writing poetry. I would write poetry about you for the entire month of February just because the month calls for it.

I do pretty well for an old tin can sailor, a baker with no appetite. My head is a complete mess. I’m a mess. I’m a complete wreck and an idiot for feeling this way. I want to think of other things that yet I come back to you. I want to know more about you, the books you read, the music you love, the story that resides behind that cool demeanor lined with a shock of silver.

I don’t think I’m good enough for you, though. I’m not an architect. Would you love me if I was?

I come from the worst background possible, with alcoholic parents, grandparents who had little influence on my parents’ ways, an extended family that tried to get me away from my parents even though they weren’t abusive, our house burning down, death from a young age, an awful eating disorder that nearly killed me on more than one occasion, bullies, and losing my best friend. My internal world has somehow kept me going, even though it’s hard to put into words sometimes. I want more books. I want more art. I want to be more active and work out when the weather starts warming up. 

But I cannot be an architect. I’m too dumb. I’m not refined enough. I’m a diamond in the rough and a jerk.

It's like what I said on the street that one time when you and I were fighting: I don't like her. I don't like her at all. In fact, I hate her. I'm not the kind of person who hates, either, so that alone should tell you something. I'll admit it. I'm shitty and horrible. It took me an entire dance with an eating disorder to feel this way, and I hate that I feel this way, too, but I want you for myself. I want to get you away from her. I want you to get away from her.

Maybe I'm just immature, but I can't let you go. I can't let you go knowing that you aren't happy with her. If you were happy, I would be more than happy to let you go.

“If you love something, let it go.” And if you were knowingly happy, if it was obvious to me, if I knew it in my heart that you were happy with her, I would let you go and be happy, because your happiness is my own happiness. We would be one of those couples that just goes their separate ways but they always love each other and they are always madly in love with each other, too. They'll always stare at the same sun as it rises in the morning. Their memory would always be there with each other, as my friend Chris' grandmother used to say whenever she witnessed something like that.

Chris. Chris. I mentioned his name here. I can't mention his name to you to your face because... well, that's a journal entry for another day. I know you're not going to see this journal as is, but I know that I'm going to have to tell you about Chris at some point or another.

Christine set down her pencil on the desk and leaned back in the chair. She placed her hands on either side of the journal with her face flushed and her heart pounding in her chest. It was as if she had just ran up and down the block several times: her mind could hardly keep up with the strokes from her hand. Her mind raced at the pace of a lava flow straight out of a freshly erupted volcano and everything within her flowed out like the strength of a storm surge from the biggest, baddest hurricane she could possibly imagine. The hurricane with the volcano.

She closed her eyes and let out a low whistle. She focused on her heart and her breathing to calm it all down before she walked out of there and visited Wendy for some dinner that evening.

All of that emotion, and all of those thoughts, all of them down on paper in that journal. She knew that Alex would never see the journal, but she knew that she would have it there every single time that she cracked open the journal. She knew that she would have to let her eyes graze over those same words over and over again in hopes to find a solution to the problem, but the problem persisted regardless of anything she did.

She lifted the front cover of the journal cover and closed it, especially when she knew Wendy waited for her.

The only problem now was having to funnel all of that, an utter monolith and torrent of volatile emotions, into an essay for him. She was going to have to tell him the truth, but she was also going to have to gloss it all over.

#as the seasons grey #as the seasons grey fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic with art #chapter 41 #traditional art #colored pencil #drawings #alex skolnick #testament #testament band #alex skolnick trio #oc art #oc tag #artists on tumblr #badgalnirvhannahart #Spotify

[kabillieu]

I want very badly to bake something sweet. I love baked goods so much, but I rarely bake because it takes a lot of planning to have the ingredients on hand, and then also I have to find time to do it. Usually it involves a stand mixer. I have a nice one (a Kitchenaid) but it lives in the basement and is heavy to bring upstairs and because I so rarely use it I have to wash the bowl and attachments first. My grandmother's stand mixer had a permanent place on her counter, and I will get there one day, but not in this house.

Anyway, I think of myself as someone who fails at baking more often than succeeds. That's another reason I don't bake often, because it's so disappointing to spend so much time and effort on something that doesn't turn out or is (even worse) mediocre.

But, in all fairness to me, there do seem to be times when I'm very, very good at making sweets, and usually that's when I come into a bounty of fresh local fruit and I have a crowd to bake for. The year we moved from Montgomery to Omaha (so five summers ago), we took my big kid to pick peaches and blueberries, and I made blueberry muffins, Edna Lewis's peach cobbler (best I have EVER tasted, and I've had a lot of peach cobbler), blueberry bars, and blueberry compote to eat with sliced pork loin. Two springs ago, I was in Pensacola for spring break, and we bought a flat of local strawberries. I made at least two strawberry icebox pies, strawberry muffins, and strawberry shortcake. I made a blueberry cobbler for my family when they were visiting last summer that everyone (including me! and I'm a tough critic of my own food) loved. I am desperate for a simple lemon loaf cake recipe that is easy to make, moist, and delicious. I would similarly love to once in my life make good lemon bars. If those bars also had another fruit like raspberry or blueberry I would die and go to (secular) heaven. Lately, I have been craving banana pudding, the icebox kind. Similarly, simple vanilla pound cake or iced chocolate sheet cake made by somebody's grandmother are also god-tier foods.

Other sweet things I love that I have no interest in making are fruit tarts, almond croissants, pastries of all kinds really, homemade-style cakes with real buttercream frosting (get outta here with grocery store cakes; yuck!), coffee cakes, and donuts. Sweet rolls that use yeast. Oh I would love, love, love some fresh orange rolls.

Eventually I'm going to have to learn how to use yeast without completely freaking out about it, or else I might never taste a delicious sticky sweet orange roll again.

All this ruminating is brought to you by a desperate craving I have for something sweet but no clue what to bake, plus little desire to put in the effort and time.

I don't use Tumblr collaboratively very much anymore, but if you've read this far and you have an easy (easy being key) and beloved dessert, I would love it if you left a link to the recipe in the comments.

[placeofwonder]

Some days you get genuinely sad thinking about people who died years ago and then other days you find yourself wishing your grandma was still alive because she taught you how to do "spot the difference" puzzles and you've just come across a You Know I Had to Do It to Them post that you can't solve and you could really need her help.

#i'm not entirely sure but i think my grandma's been dead for about ten years now #it might be nine but i don't think it's less than that #but there are some very specific things that remind me of her every single time i come across them #like spot the difference puzzles #or walnut ice cream #or 10 times 10 equals 100 #(when we said hello we used to high five except with both hands and ten times and we called it a high hundred and that's how i learned that) #and elephants #and jigsaw puzzles #and who wants to be a millionaire #the way camels walk #fuck i wish i could have known her for longer #great this started out as a shitpost and now i went from the latter feeling to the former #sudokus #nutella to go #except back then it came with a compartment of peach juice #i don't even like nutella anymore but if they brought the peach juice thing back i would 100% buy that #also her recipe for a really delicious chocolate almond cake #which my mum sent me now that i've finally bought a loaf tin #i think i'll make it soon

[farfarawaygirl]

Not really fandom related but I was wondering what are some of your favorite recipes for cakes, loaves or cookies? I've been looking to try so new ones!

This is my sweet spot, also the name of my imaginary bakery!

Okay, the best thing I have baked lately is Angel Food Cake!

Here is a great recipe - the most important part is to add almond and vanilla extract. I am serious about this. Don't skip the almond extract. It is spectacular, and you can make lemon curd (any curd really) with the yolks - or scramble them for your spoiled puppy!

Controversial, but still delicious: these chocolate chip cookies from Bon Appetite. Browned butter and letting the dough rest are game changers! These are a much requested cookie in my social circle.

My family loves 'Carrie Brownies' from Love and Lemon, they were the start of a really beautiful friendship between me and @crose84, additionally they are a very versatile base, add nuts, dried cherries, different chocolate etc - and they are dairy free!

If you are a YouTube baker, I suggest Binging with Babish, he does very fun and outlandish movie/tv show to real life baking - including Arepas con Queso inspired by Encanto!

I usually find baking inspiration from the places and things around me - UBC Cinnamon bins were a staple in my childhood, earl grey cookies because my family is big on tea. Growing up, I had a friend who was one of four sisters, through tragic circumstances her mom was in a long term care facility, and her dad would always google "best ever -(fill in the blank with what you want to bake)-" and go from there. It is a surprisingly effective method.

I follow some of my favourite people from Great British Bake off - Martha Collinson, Flora Shedden, Andrew Smyth, etc. as they share recipes and have books out! I also follow Mary Berry, she has videos out on BBC on YouTube, and Paul Hollywood. Additionally, I follow Claire Saffitz, and Sohla El-Waylly, Priya Krishna, and even Jamie Oliver! Those are some of my favourite jumping off points, and of course I look at where the dish is from and try to find authentic sources!

#emma bakes in the void #emma loves cooking #emma's sweet spot #this was a fun ask!

[onthesandsofdreams]

The Florist & The Baker

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn Rating: T Summary: She laughed and made her way to the back, her flower shop was next to a bakery. And she had met Cassian Andor soon after her store opened, he had given her a coffee and a slice of the best strawberry cake she’d tasted. It had been his way to welcome her to the neighborhood. And if she was going to be completely honest, she had loved the way his smile came so easily and how warm his deep chocolate eyes sparkled. She returned the favor by giving him a flowering cactus, one that now had a place of honor at Cassian’s cash register. And much like the flowers she sold, their friendship bloomed. But she would be lying if she didn’t admit – if only to herself – that she liked Cassian in a way that it wasn’t entirely friendly.  Words: 1733 Notes: Because why not combine florist and bakery au?

Read @ AO3

Jyn walked to her shop with a purpose, the day was bright and there was a slight breeze, she had woken in a good mood and she knew, that today would be a good day. The day was too perfect for it not to be.

Once at her store, she pushed the door and the bell above it rang. Bodhi was already in, sipping something (she never knew what he drank, some days were coffee, some hot chocolate, others tea) and eating a muffin. “Morning Bodhi,” she greeted him.

Bodhi gave her a grin, “Morning, boss. Jyn, Cass came over and brought you cake and coffee, you just missed him.”

She grinned at Bodhi and raised a brow, “And since when is Cassian, Cass?”

“Since he got me the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted and this muffin for free.”

She laughed and made her way to the back, her flower shop was next to a bakery. And she had met Cassian Andor soon after her store opened, he had given her a coffee and a slice of the best strawberry cake she’d tasted. It had been his way to welcome her to the neighborhood. And if she was going to be completely honest, she had loved the way his smile came so easily and how warm his deep chocolate eyes sparkled. She returned the favor by giving him a flowering cactus, one that now had a place of honor at Cassian’s cash register. And much like the flowers she sold, their friendship bloomed. But she would be lying if she didn’t admit – if only to herself – that she liked Cassian in a way that it wasn’t entirely friendly.

She sat at her desk, where the still steaming coffee called to her and besides it, a plate that held some white cake. She sat and grabbed the fork, watched as it went through the cream and the fluffy cake. Took a bite and resisted the urge to moan, almond cake, blueberry cream filling and buttercream. It was perfect, much like all of Cassian’s confections (and a traitorous part of her brain whispered ‘like Cassian.’). She shook her head smiling, grabbed the coffee and took a sip, she allowed those moments to simply enjoy the cake and coffee before she began work in earnest. She didn’t want her mind to wonder to that handsome store neighbor of hers.

Jyn spend the rest of her day making orders, her bouquets had earned a reputation and she always took every single order that she received seriously, treated it with respect, love and dedication. She had placed high standards for herself and thus, earned accolades from the city she lived in. Now that she had Bodhi, she would spend more time dedicating herself to the bouquets, Bodhi had a good eye for flowers and read people quite well enough to recommend which to buy on a hurry, which is why he took care of half of the walk-in and she took care of the special bouquets; those that needed to be special.

It was almost the end of the day, when Jyn herself had to attend a walk-in. Nothing Bodhi did met his impossible standards.

“It’s for a special someone,” the teen had said.

Jyn had simply nodded, “How special?” She didn’t ask this question lightly, but she wanted to know where to start.

The boy flushed pink, much to her amusement. “It – it’s for a friend. But, it needs to be something masculine.” He managed to say.

Jyn thought for a moment, then nodded again. “Callas, blue iris and ferns, I think. It will be masculine, I promise you that.” No sooner than she spoke, she set to work. The boy didn’t interrupt her, and she let herself imagine making it for Cassian. But Cassian was easier to gift flowers, by his own admission, he liked them and in fact, he’d buy a bouquet from her store once a week. All sorts of flowers, he’d never seemed to be bothered if they looked ‘feminine’, he simply liked them, so he got them.

Perhaps she could make him something small, before she returned his plate. As thank you for the slice of cake and coffee. Just a friendly gesture.

Once she finished the bouquet, Jyn showed it to the teen. By the way his eyes sparkled, it seemed that she’d met his approval, she smiled. “Do you like it?” She asked, no harm in asking.

“Yeah. It’s perfect miss.”

The boy payed and left, and she looked around her store while Bodhi did a small bouquet for the following day. Jyn picked a calla, lilly-of-the-valley, ferns and tiny blue flowers and set herself to make a small bouquet. She wanted to pretend that it was just a simple thanks, but even she couldn’t live in denial for so long. She wanted to ask Cassian on a date, what better way to do so with flowers in hand? It’s not like Cassian would be offended by the flowers.

Cassian Jeron Andor didn’t subscribe to any toxic masculine ideas. If anyone would appreciate being asked out on a date with flowers, it’d be him.

Once it was done, Jyn set the bouquet on her desk, and spent some time driven to distraction by gazing at it and at the empty plate. “Hey boss,” Bodhi’s voice startled her. “I’m leaving, need something else?”

Jyn shook her head, “No thank you, goodnight Bodhi.”

“Not leaving yet?”

“In a minute.”

The look that Bodhi gave her said that he wanted to ask, but didn’t out of respect. “Alright, goodnight, see you tomorrow.”

Jyn didn’t leave until ten minutes after Bodhi did, carrying a plate and a small bouquet. Then, as she stood in front of Cassian’s bakery, staring at the ‘Closed’ sign, she wondered, should she knock? After a moment’s hesitation, she did and waited. It was only then that doubts assailed her, what if he was already gone? What if he didn’t like her bouquet?

So lost in her mind she was, that Jyn didn’t even notice the door opening, until Cassian’s voice brought her back to reality. “Jyn?”

Jyn blinked quickly, trying to regain her wits. “Ah, you’re still here, good!”

Cassian looked at her and smiled when he noticed the empty plate. “Liked the cake?”

“Yes, it was delicious, I – well, just came to bring the plate back. Oh! And I brought you a thank you!” She lifted the bouquet.

Cassian’s smile grew, and took both the plate and bouquet from her. “C’mon on in, that is, if you want, I’m still making some stuff, I’d welcome the company.”

Jyn followed him inside, all the way to the back, where all his famous confections were made. The room held a strong aroma of cinnamon. “Baking so late?”

Cassian placed the plate on the sink, the flowers he set on the side and nodded, “New recipe that goes up tomorrow, cinnamon cake with white chocolate frosting, and I like baking new ones the day before, that way, I can work with them better than freshly baked.”

“Ah.” She didn’t know a thing about baking, but she trusted Cassian. “Why cakes?” She blurted. “I mean, your creations are delicious and you’re a wizard with a whisk, so I’m sure that you could do more things than what you do. Also, why the Irish wolfhound for the signature?”

Cassian laughed and Jyn liked how his eyes sparkled with mirth. “I hate cupcake shops,” he said, but there wasn’t any true heat to his words. “They make amazing flavors and then six months later, they’re gone and they refuse to make it again.” Then he laughed again. “And as the wolfhound, well, that’s in honor of my dog, Kaytoo. He’s a grouch, but he’s a great dog.”

Jyn arched an eyebrow, “Is that why your menu is always growing? I mean, you never take anything off the list of cakes you make, even if they’re not on the display. Huh, didn’t know you had a dog, much less an Irish wolfhound.”

“Yesss.” Cassian said as he checked the oven. “Even if the seasons change, I like having options. Obviously, the request needs to be made ahead of time, but I like the challenge. And what can I say, I found him on the road, poor thing had been left behind by his owners, checked for chips and all that, so I took him home with me. He’s a great dog.”

The thought of Cassian rescuing a dog was absolutely adorable. “What a hero, I’m glad that dog found you. On cakes, what’s your favorite?”

“Thanks, I’m really happy with him.” Then, Cassian thought for a moment. “Our signature chocolate cake, that’s the one for me.”

Jyn nodded, she’d tried the cake and nearly cried in bliss. It was decadent, luxurious and all around perfect. She’d sworn to herself to only eat it on special occasions, else she’d be in trouble. It was that good. “I love it too,” she admitted.

Cassian smiled at her and pulled the cake out of the oven. The smell of cinnamon intensified. “How was work?”

“All in all, a calm day.”

“That’s good.”

“Cassian?”

“Yes, Jyn?”

She hesitated for a moment, she looked at the bouquet, then at Cassian’s face and sighed, so much for a simple friendly gesture. “Want to have dinner with me sometime?” There. She’d said it.

Cassian looked at her face, as if trying to find anything at odd with what she’d said. Jyn met his eyes, a soft smile to her face. Cassian slowly matched it. “When?”

“I’m free on Saturday, does that work for you?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Great. It’s a date then,” she said, her smile had grown. All doubts gone. “I have to go, but I’ll see on Saturday.”

Cassian nodded and walked her to the door, opened the door and held it open for her. “I’ll see you on Saturday,” his voice was lower, with a huskier quality that she quite liked. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Jyn answered and walked out, the moon was shinning and the scent of cinnamon still reached her. She began to walk away, only to turn around and see Cassian still leaning against his door watching as she walked away. She smiled, maybe she should buy cinnamon candles, just to remember this moment every time she lit them. “Night, darling Cass,” she whispered one last time.

#dailyrebelcaptain #therebelcaptainnetwork #RebelCaptain #cassian x jyn #cassian andor #jyn erso #bodhi rook #rogue one fic #rogue one #au: flower shop #au: bakery

[great-jenna-bake-off]

Season 3 Episode 9: Fraisier Cake

I thought working from (and spending literally all my time at) home would give me more time to bake, but then I got a puppy and my life got turned upside down. She's very cute, but man does she take up a lot of time that I could otherwise be spending baking. Or eating. So maybe it's for the best that I got a puppy.

Anyway, I finally managed to get my act together long enough to make my next bake: a Fraisier cake. We're getting toward the end of the season, so the technical bakes are getting harder and more esoteric. I have certainly never heard of a Fraisier cake, let alone eaten one, but at first glance it didn't look... that hard? It's basically a sponge cake with some creme patissiere, decorated with fresh strawberries and marzipan. How hard could that be? (Famous last words...)

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/fraisier_cake_75507

The first step was to make the actual cake portion of the Fraisier cake. The recipe calls for "self-raising flour", and after a few recent improvisations with less than ideal results, I decided to just shell out for the actual ingredient. However, this new strategy hit a speed bump when the recipe called for an "electric hand whisk", which, as mentioned previously, I do not own. No matter; surely I could kick it old-school and rely on my own brute strength to mix the cake ingredients by hand as they heated on the stove top.

This will definitely not create any problems for me down the line...

Editor’s Note: If you’re thinking to yourself, some of these pictures seem smaller than usual, you would be correct. If you’re also thinking to yourself, Jenna is probably too lazy to figure out how to resize them and make them consistent, you are also correct. 

According to the recipe, I would be done when the mixture had doubled in volume and was pale in color.

Looks pale to me?

Next, it was time to add the all-important self raising flour.

Gently folded in as to keep in the air that I painstakingly whipped up by hand.

And voila; cake batter was ready to go into the oven.

Looks good so far!

I thought I was off to a good start, but as soon as my cake came out of the oven, I realized I was in trouble. The recipe specifies that the cake should be about 2 inches in height, as you need to slice it in half to make two layers. Mine was... not.

It's like... half an inch, maybe?

Uh oh. Maybe that hand whisking didn't do the trick after all. Still, the cake looked reasonably tasty, so I decided to just move on and start my creme patissiere. First, I had to boil my milk and vanilla pod.

This smelled really nice.

Then it was time for some more whisking: this time of eggs, cornflour, sugar, and kirsch, which is a cherry-flavored brandy.

Fun fact: kirsch is pretty disgusting on its own. Wilson volunteered to drink what I didn't use in this recipe, which was fine by me as it tasted like nail polish remover. Do not recommend.

Finally, I had to whisk the egg mixture and the hot milk together.

My whisking arm is getting a workout today.

Then, I needed to put the mixture back on the stove and watch it very carefully, as in about four minutes the mixture would thicken very quickly. Well, four minutes came and went, and nothing happened. I diligently kept my eye on it, but it definitely did not appear to be approaching a texture that was "thick enough to pipe", per the recipe.

Nothing happening yet...

So finally, I committed a cardinal GBBO sin. I took my eye off the stove for JUST A MINUTE to wash the dishes. And when I came back, my creme patissiere had turned into this:

Uh oh.

I have never made a creme patissiere before. But I have eaten it, and I know it's not supposed to be THIS thick. It's supposed to be velvety and creamy and delicious, while this was more of an... eggy gloop? But hey, it was certainly thick enough to pipe. Maybe the next step of adding butter would help.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t!

So my creme patissiere looked like mashed potatoes. If I were on the show, this is where I would realize I had gone horribly wrong and would toss this creme in the bin before starting over. But, given that I would not actually be serving my food to Paul and Mary, I decided to soldier on. After all, at least my creme was thick enough to pipe. Maybe this was what I was supposed to do after all? So I stuck the creme patissiere in the fridge to cool and crossed my fingers that I would somehow have a delicious, smooth creme when it came out.

Maybe this doesn’t look so bad??

The final step before assembly was to make a lemon syrup, which thankfully was pretty simple after all the missteps I’d already made in this recipe. However, I soon found myself facing another problem: I needed to roll out a layer of marzipan to put on top of my cake, but I had left my rolling pin at Wilson’s house (we made a chicken pie). Luckily, I had a substitute:

When in doubt, break out the wine.

And hey, it actually did the trick.

Who needs a rolling pin?

Finally, it was time to put my cake together. First, I faced the problem of slicing my extremely thin sponge into to layers. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best...

Not actually that terrible.

With some creative construction work, I was able to get two fairly even layers.

No one will ever know.

And now, it was time to stack. In an ideal world, I would have had a strip of acetate plastic to line my springform pan with and had a beautiful, clean surface to work on. But I didn’t even have a rolling pin handy; obviously I don’t have acetate lining around. So plastic wrap would have to do.

If it works, it works.

Then it was time to turn my attention to my strawberries. I picked out the prettiest, most evenly sized ones I could find, and halved them.

At least these turned out pretty. 

And then, it was construction time. First, I put in a layer of cake, brushed it with lemon syrup (my pastry brush was also at Wilson’s, so really I spooned on the syrup), and then added a “little crown of strawberries”, as per the recipe.

Regal.

Next, it was time to see if my creme patissiere had magically transformed into the right texture in the fridge.

Nope, still lumpy. But at least it was pretty solid...?

I added some more chopped strawberries on top.

At least the strawberries will taste good.

Then it was time for the rest of my “creme patissiere”, if you can even call it that at this point.

So lumpy. 

And then finally, I put on the other half of the cake, spooned over some more syrup, and topped it off with my marzipan. The recipe specified that I should melt some chocolate and make “pretty” decorations, and honestly I kind of wanted to call it a day given all my struggles and just forgo the chocolate. But in the spirit of the competition, I gave it a go anyway:

There is no design to this chocolate, this is the epitome of winging it.

I left the whole godforsaken mess to cool in the fridge overnight. In the meantime, it was time to check in with the bakers to see if they’d fare any better than I did with this Fraisier cake.

***

Mel starts off by referring to a Fraisier cake as a well-known celebration cake, which is certainly news to me.

Must be more popular in the UK, I guess.

The bakers start off by making a genoise sponge, and surprisingly, James chooses to whisk his by hand as well.

Dedication.

However, after seeing Dani’s batter, I can see that I have clearly not even come close to whipping mine for long enough.

This explains the lack of volume in my cake, I guess.

Dani struggles with the creme patissiere, though - she says that hers has “cellulite”.

It’s lumpy like mine, but I never thought to sieve it. 

As always, James seems to know exactly what to do.

Such smooth creme. 

All the bakers, however, struggle with setting up the acetate.

This makes me feel better about my plastic wrapped cake.

When it comes time to assemble, I can see that my creme is indeed thicker than the bakers’, even Dani’s.

Much more pipeable.

However, this may not be such a bad thing after all - Dani’s cake starts falling apart as soon as she takes it out of the pan, as the creme isn’t set.

Melty cake is never a positive.

In the end, James takes home the gold in yet another technical, with a perfectly risen sponge and a nicely set creme patissiere. 

That does look pretty celebratory.

***

It was time for the grand unveiling of my own cake. Would my thin cakes and lumpy creme prove to be my downfall?

First, here’s Mary’s perfect Fraisier:

And here’s mine, complete with chocolate decor:

You can definitely see that the creme isn’t the perfect smooth texture, and my bottom cake especially is a little narrow. But maybe it’s not quite so far off? As always, my judges would be the final arbiters. 

***

Matt’s Review: I get the sense that, as time goes on, the bakes are getting harder and harder to transport. So upon Jenna’s arrival I was already impressed that the cake was holding together as well as it did. And that turned out to be important, because the pairing of the layers was the key to this one. I’m always impressed when a food can take a flavor I normally don’t like and recontextualize it in such a way that I become a fan. In this case, that flavor is almond. I really struggle with that flavor normally, and this bake doesn’t disguise it at all. Instead, it pairs it perfectly with the other layers. I think Jenna did an excellent job with all the ratios — this could easily have become a “dislike” for me, but instead it was a joy to eat. All in all, two thumbs up. The cake, and Jenna, made my quarantine a little sweeter. 

Wilson’s Review: Well, the consistency is a little off on the creme patissiere. That can be a bit tricky, but the cake is a bit flat, looks like something went wrong with the mixing. Really should be past those kind of errors by now. I like strawberries, and the chocolate added an element of richness that contrasted brilliantly. As for the sponge, while not the prettiest I’ve ever seen, it does taste good - nice and airy. Overall a nice treat for a mid summer snack, once one gets past the first impression.

***

Final Thoughts: The creme patissiere was definitely a bit eggy, which was less than ideal. But all in all, this cake tasted pretty good and looked pretty fancy. The cake layers still felt airy and yummy even though they were thin, and the fresh fruit made for a nice treat. I will absolutely need to practice my creme patissiere though, and remember to NEVER take my eye off the stove. Rookie mistake. 

#GBBO #great british bake off #Mary Berry #fraisier cake

[sweetescape01748]

The recipe that started it all...

Kate O’Connor | Photo Essay | March 13 2021

At 5:00 a.m. when most people are slamming the “snooze” button on their alarm clocks to get some extra rest, Melissa Roiter is packing her kids lunches, walking the dog, and getting ready to prepare some delicious desserts. Shortly after that, she then wakes her 13 year-old triplets up to start her day as a single mom, and being a self-employed bakery owner. After a short drive to Yummy Mummy Bakery, Roiter scurries inside to begin gathering brownie ingredients and whip up the first batch of the day-as the aroma of Semi-Sweet cocoa fills the air. 

Roiter is a successful businesswoman carrying on her grandmother’s baking legacy at Yummy Mummy Bakery in Westborough Massachusetts. Her introduction to baking is “all about nostalgia and fudge-style brownies”.

Yummy Mummy specializes in homemade, delicious, American sweets. Roiter proudly exclaims that “our best seller is our brownies and our most popular varieties are salted caramel, peanut butter, espresso and cheesecake”. 

Roiter of Southboro grew up in Holden Massachusetts, attended Worcester Academy and graduated from Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. With her family background, Roiter seemed destined for the food business. Her mother, Nancy Benjamin was a caterer, and owned “Smart Cookies Catering” in Worcester; her aunt, Jody Garber, owned the Cambridge -based company, “A Mere Truffle”, and her grandmother was a baker at heart. Roiter excidelty adds, “my grandmother’s homemade fudge brownie recipe was the start to my whole business”. Roiter describes her mother as a perfectionist who would test a recipe up to four times before putting it on a menu. “She’s a great cook, really the best ever’. While sighing, Roiter said she personally isn’t into cooking. “I think it’s because my mom spoiled me,” she said. “I really have an appreciation of how hard she worked and what she accomplished. To this day, my mom cooks for family and friends and still loves it”.

Roiter’s journey began in the corporate world at a bank, and she felt that the financial world was not suited for her. However, when her friend, Stephen Kramer got married, Roiter offered to give the couple a brownie bar as their wedding gift. And from that point on, people were begging for more brownies. 

Roiter reminisced by explaining, “My business started over 15 years ago out of my home. It was called Yummy Mummy Brownies. Based on my grandmother’s recipe, I baked and sold over 20 different varieties of brownies.” When Roiter started her business, her triplets were 2 years old, “I was a momtrepreneur!” she said giggling. 

Roiter sold her first few batches of brownies at farmer’s markets and online. “My business grew and grew until after 8 years, I could no longer do it out of my home. I had taken up too much of my house with ovens and extra refrigerators in the basement, freezers in the garage and the only things to eat were eggs, butter, sugar and chocolate” Roiter said while laughing. With limited kitchen space,  Roiter decided to open a retail bakery. At first, she had a small space for 3 ½  years which enabled her to “get started”. Now, the bakery has fifteen employees, and has relocated to a bigger space, at 50 East Main Street, right down the road from their former site.

Being the owner of this small business, Roiter quickly moves around taking calls, making coffee, boxing up goods, and directing her staff in the kitchen. “I put in about 70 hours per week at my business but I don’t consider this work. Yummy Mummy’s talented staff of thirteen employees consisting of bakers and cake decorators, help to produce not only decadent brownies (of course!),  but other American sweets like cookies, cupcakes, coconut bundt cake, bars, cake pops, etc.” According to the momtrepreneur, “brownies are the most popular as that’s what I’m already known for. However, I highly recommend the doughnut muffin, double chocolate pecan cookie, coconut cake and pb&j bar”. 

According to Roiter, “after sweets all day (shhh, don’t tell anyone), I like to make a big salad with fresh veggies, feta cheese, slivered almonds and topped with homemade lemon dressing”.

Owning a small business is difficult. Roiter explains that she has learned a lot of life lessons throughout her time of being an entrepreneur. Some of the most challenging lessons she has had to face are learning “to incorporate a business, getting my food permits, negotiating my leases”. However, she explains that she is learning as she goes. Some of the struggles she faces on a daily basis include “being a single mom and finding work/life balance, learning how to stand up for myself in business matters like my bakery build out, negotiating best prices on ingredients, managing an ever growing staff, being organized and (finally) being a fair yet effective boss” said Roiter.  

What makes Yummy Mummy Bakery different from others? According to Roiter, “Everything, and I mean everything, is made fresh and from scratch every morning”. There’s no cutting corners, “only real butter, eggs and chocolate are used”. Every recipe is tested multiple times until it is yummy. The baked goods are also traditional American treats: chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and popovers. There’s nothing too fancy - just real and just real good. “Just the smell of brownies baking in the oven is enough to make you swoon” said Roiter. 

Roiter said she is fortunate to have been surrounded by strong women who have supported her on her journey. As Yummy Mummy continues to expand, Roiter said she is busy scouting other channels of sales. The business currently caters events, ships corporate and personal mail orders nationwide, participates in farmers markets and wholesales many of its products.

“We recently started offering cake and cookie decorating classes,” added Roiter. “We try to have fun each and every day while making people’s lives sweeter.”

As expected, business at Yummy Mummy Bakery has been disrupted by the Coronavirus pandemic back in March. Bakery hours were condensed, and Yummy Mummy asked customers to pre-order at www.yummymummybakery.com to keep the baked goods comin’. Roiter even set up Saturday pop-ups for the safety and convenience of customers.   

The bakery used social media to its advantage as another way to publicize at-home events, such a cooking challenge they coined as “Chopped.” Roiter challenged customers to tackle a bag of mystery ingredients she put together and sold at the shop. “We threw our own Food Network ‘Chopped’-inspired party,” she said. Participants were asked to use the mystery ingredients to make something special at home and then post a photo on Facebook.

Roiter judged the challenge. “It was fun and well received,” she said about the more than 300 submitted photos.

When asked about her success, she responded with “Strong support, especially from the community, family and friends, has helped as we innovate during difficult times. Definitely being at the right place at the right time helps as well. It’s not all just about luck” chuckled Roiter.

Roiter has been appreciative of all the love she received during these past few, difficult months. “I’ve been blown away by online orders. I feel very fortunate, and I am very thankful.”

[sunnytumbies]

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that! 

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

___________________________________________________________

Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest. 

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home. 

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven. 

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Cal is not having a good day. 

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach. 

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through. 

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much. 

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t  matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits. 

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans. 

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles. 

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone. 

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay? 

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day. 

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything. 

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do 

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course. 

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it. 

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?” 

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it. 

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.” 

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Some time later, Quincy comes for him. 

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach. 

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?” 

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

  “Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

  “No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. 

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.” 

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely. 

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom. 

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”  

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.” 

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea.  “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.” 

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.” 

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.” 

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him. 

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches  for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea. 

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache. 

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.” 

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.” 

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?” 

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

#tiny-tum #perhaps it's for the better since i s2g that entire 500 words was the first sequence describing what amy baked but #i think they were like. better words! #i digress this is what we've got #Amy #Cal #Quincy #stuffing #stress eating #stress baking #belly rubs #dysphoria #side fic #answered #i think the reason im so unhappy with this is that i want quincy to be somewhat mysterious until the major fics are released but also i just #cant imagine anyone being super invested until they know more about these ppl #which is fair #but...yeah! hope ppl enjoy! #why am i so anxious about this

[maryanntorreson]

The 12 Days Of Cookiemas: Holiday Pastries From Around The World

There’s something about the holidays that make cookies an inevitability. As the temperatures dip down, baking cookies is an excuse to turn on the oven and fill the kitchen with both warmth and the smells of vanilla and cinnamon. Cookies are a great way to feed gatherings of people, without the need for cutting or slicing. And as the evenings get darker and we start to stay inside more, they’re a welcome escape. Traditional Christmas cookies are nostalgia wrapped in sugar.

Another great thing about cookies is how varied they can be. It’s tempting to always stick with the same pastries your parents made, but that limits your possibilities. To help you diversify, we looked at some of the most popular cookies in other countries. Presenting the 12 Days of Cookiemas, with recipes for traditional Christmas cookies from around the world.

1. German Pfeffernusse

Pfeffernusse are very popular throughout Germany and the Netherlands during the holiday season. The name literally means “pepper nuts,” which sounds far less appealing than they actually are. They’re similar to gingerbread, but thicker, softer and covered with a firm sugar icing. The snowball appearance gives them an extra wintery look. You can buy them in many stores in the United States, but nothing beats the homemade kind.

2. Argentinian Alfajores

Alfajores are kind of like Oreos, but also they’re nothing like Oreos. These pastries are two soft cookies held together by dulce de leche, and the combination is delicious. The origins of this cookie apparently go back to Spain over 1,000 years ago, when a slightly more rudimentary form of the pastry was made. The recipe traveled to South America during the colonial era, and they were really perfected in Argentina.

3. Polish Kołaczki

Photo by Kurman Communications, Inc. via Flickr. License.

Perhaps the greatest feature of kołaczki is that they’re very versatile. The exterior is constant — a cream cheese dough with a nice flakiness — but the inside can be whatever you’d like. Whether filled with almond spread, strawberry or even Nutella, kołaczki are a delicious cookie. Poland, the Czech Republic and other countries all claim to have invented this pastry, but its exact origin is lost to history. You don’t need to know where they’re from to eat them, though.

4. British Stained Glass Cookies

Don’t worry, there’s no actual glass in stained glass cookies. It’s essentially a sugar cookie with holes cut into it, where you add crushed candy that’s heated to turns into a “pane.” So it’s literally a candy window. These cookies are great to eat, but they’re also used for another purpose: decoration. You can put a hole near the top and put string through them. Some people hang them on their Christmas trees or in their windows. Of course, you can also just eat them, because some people might think it’s weird to have stale cookies hanging around your house.

5. Eastern European Rugelach

Rugelach, traditionally a Jewish pastry, is not explicitly associated with any holiday. Yet it seems that as December rolls around, these cookies start to appear. They often makes an appearance at holiday parties, regardless of the host’s religious affiliation. They’re kind of like mini croissants, with dough wrapped around jam, cinnamon, chocolate and nuts. The filling is variable, but the enjoyment is not.

6. Austrian Vanillekipferl

Vanillekipferl are almond-flavored pastry crescents. Their origin is a bit muddled, but they’re popular in Austria, Hungary, Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Poland. It’s believed that the cookie’s crescent shape is based on the Turkish crescent moon that you can see on Turkey’s flag. They were made like this to celebrate the Hungarian defeat of the Turkish in one of several battles in the Ottoman-Hungarian Wars. This is clearly not the most holiday-friendly story, but hey, they’re cookies. Vanillekipferl are eaten year-round in Austria, but they’re considered a holiday treat in most other countries.

7. German Zimtsterne

Yes, we chose two cookies from Germany, but these are worth it. After all, Germany is famous for traditional Christmases, so it only makes sense they would have the plentiful traditional Christmas cookies. Often called cinnamon stars, these cookies are made from almonds and cinnamon. In the old days of Germany, cinnamon was a rare spice, and so these cookies were considered a specialty item. They became associated with Christmas because it was the time of year when people splurged on the finer things. They’re always shaped like six-pointed stars, so let them light up your dark night.

8. Italian Anginetti

Italy has no shortage of small cookies for the holiday season, but anginetti are a particular favorite. They’re pretty typical drop cookies with a slight lemony taste, but there’s something irresistible about the glaze with the sprinkles. The sprinkles also give them a very festive look that make them a colorful part of any cookie plate. They’re also a lot less heavy than your average cookie, so you can eat more without feeling guilty.

9. Finnish Joulutorttu

This is a treat of many names. Joulutorttu literally translates to “Christmas tart,” but they’re more commonly known in English as prune tarts. Don’t let that name scare you away. Prunes are not always bad, and these cookies prove it. They cookies are also called pinwheels, thanks to their whimsical appearance that is formed by folding the dough in a certain way. They’re particularly enjoyable when paired with a cup of coffee.

10. Scottish Shortbread

Shortbread seems are a pretty lackluster cookie when judged on looks alone, but it’s hard to beat the buttery, crumbly flavor. These cookies are great whether you make them yourself or buy them in a tartan tin. Shortbread also has history: they’ve been around since medieval times in Scotland. Their popularity is sometimes credited to Mary, Queen of Scots, who apparently enjoyed them during her reign in the 16th century. This story, while fun, is probably false. These traditional Christmas cookies predate Queen Mary’s reign.

11. Mexican Biscochitos

Are those wedding bells I hear? Why no, it’s just biscochitos. These are usually called “Mexican wedding cookies” outside Mexico, and they are indeed heavily associated with matrimony. That doesn’t mean you can’t have them whenever, though, and they are a nice treat in cold weather. These tend to be very simple to make. Biscochitos are flour, nuts and a few other ingredients are baked together and then rolled in powdered sugar.

12. French Madeleines

The French consider madeleines to be a small cake, but we’ll call them Christmas cookies for simplicity’s sake. These spongy pastries are not for the novice cook, as the recipe is a little complex. Fortunately, you can also buy them at any French bakery. Madeleines can be made in a few different flavors, like chocolate and lavender, but lemon ones are the most common. Madeleines are some of the prettiest cookies in existence, so they’ll work very well for your Instagram. They’re best paired with a cup of tea and a novel (maybe even French novelist Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, where madeleines play a central role).

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[imagine-organization-xiii]

Headcanons for the Organization members with a S/O who’s really good at baking/owns a bakery?

this is an amazing ask because i love to bake and would definitely have gone to culinary school if i felt like i could actually make money with it

Xemnas

Their Favorite Recipe: Classic Fruit Tarts

You first met when Xemnas came to the restaurant for an evening meal - a business meeting of sorts with Saix when the two needed a break from the other organization members. He was so impressed that he asked to meet the head chef, and you pretty much stumbled into a relationship from there. He likes to challenge you, to give you some of his favorite meals and see if you can exceed his expectations - which you do, every time.

Xigbar

Their Favorite Recipe: Triple Bourbon Chocolate Brownies

Xigbar: “let’s see how many ways you can put alcohol into your desserts” You: “Xigbar, I can’t sell that at a bakery, there are kids that go there and try to order stuff” Xigbar: “more for me then“

Thinks you look sexy when you cook, if you can believe it. There’s something about the determined look of concentration on your face that he loves and he seriously adores when you’re cooking in nothing but his shirt.

Xaldin

Favorite Recipe: Malted Chocolate Cake with Toasted Marshmallow Filling

Xaldin doesn’t really cook, but he likes the smell of goods baking in the oven and he likes watching you walk around the kitchen, humming to yourself as you bake and cook, so he simply likes to sit at the counter or at the table and read the paper or catch up on some reports and watch you work. There’s something about how passionate you get that’s really attractive to him.

Vexen

Their Favorite Recipe: Peach Bars with an Almond Drizzle

Get ready to get super pissed off because Vexen will literally stand over your shoulder and make sure you are getting exact measurements and criticizing that your portions aren’t even and “there’s no possible way that those ingredients can taste pleasant together” and “but the recipe says -”

So you’ll definitely have to kick him out of the kitchen a few times, probably more than once, but he’s overly grateful that you’re keeping him fed when he doesn’t have time to cook for himself - even if he might forget to actually say ‘thank you’ sometimes.

Lexaeus

Their Favorite Recipe: Raspberry Almond Layer Cake

Lexaeus can cook a mean steak and can make some awesome pancakes, but desserts are a little past his area of expertise. It’s okay, though, he’s happy to watch you waltz around your kitchen and be your official taste tester. He gives great feedback and never complains, and you’re lucky to have him around!

Zexion

Their Favorite Recipe: Mocha Cupcakes with Espresso Buttercream Frosting

Has a problem with cooking if he can’t follow a recipe to the letter, so he has no idea how you can just throw a bunch of random ingredients together and make beautiful, delicious creations. You explain that yo’ve been doing it so long that it just makes sense in your head even if it confuses everyone else - and he doesn’t understand, but he can’t argue with your logic since you create pretty much masterpieces every time you plan a new recipe.

Saix

Their Favorite Recipe: No Bake Eggnog Pie

He has a small amount of cooking talent and he improves rapidly, so he likes to move around the kitchen with you. You’ll give each other tasks to complete as he handles the meals and you handle the desserts and other baked treats. It’s a good system for you both to try new foods that you’ve never had before and old favorites! You also both like to experiment with recipes so it’s nice to have someone there to write down the ingredients when you toss them into a mixing bowl!

Axel

Their Favorite Recipe: White Chocolate Orange Creamsicle Truffles

Loves to watch you cook but thinks it’s funny to and add stuff into the dessert batter when you turn around, so you’ve basically become a master of directly smacking his hand with spatulas and soup ladles and tossing utensils at his head with only a half glance. You’ve never made anything he hasn’t liked, though, so you sometimes let it slide when he steals the spoon to eat the leftover cookie dough.

Demyx

Their Favorite Recipe: Caramel Apple Pie Bombs

Demyx is a sucker for anything caramel, so you make it a point to have caramel treats in your pantry every time you see him. He can’t cook and you don’t even want to let him near the stove or the oven just on the off chance he might accidentally burn himself or light something on fire, so he’s happy to just sit on the counter and chat with you while you cook. It’s a good system - almost like having your own cheerleader!

Luxord

Their Favorite Recipe: Classic Cream Puffs

Luxord likes to share with you the dishes of his childhood, like toffee pudding and banoffee pie, trifles and custard tarts. You take it as a challenge to make some of his childhood favorites and he loves enjoying the fruits of your labor. He tries walking you through the process, but he ends up making it more complicated than it needs to be, so you sometimes have to kick him out of the kitchen. It’s still enjoyable to cook for him, though!

Marluxia

Their Favorite Recipe: Champagne Vanilla Bean Cake

Marluxia doesn’t eat desserts often, so he presents a particular challenge that you are more than ready to face. He’ll eat whatever you make, but you challenge yourself to try to make desserts for Marluxia that are sugar free or gluten free or free of butter or other fatty ingredients. Most of the recipes are works in progress but you’ve made a few over the years that were real hits and he loves them!

Larxene

Favorite Recipe: Rumchata Blondies with Fireball Cream Cheese Frosting

Larxene is just happy that you like to bake for her. She can’t bake anything, so the fact that you’re so good at it and take so much joy from it amazes her. She admires you even if she doesn’t quite understand the big deal about your talent. She’s survived this long without being able to cook - but she’s lucky she has you so that she doesn’t have to live on sandwiches and cereal for the rest of her life.

Roxas

Their Favorite Recipe: Reese’s Fluffernutter Bars

Likes it when you call him your sous chef even though the man can’t cook to save his life. Just likes to feel included and feel like he’s helping, so you’re happy to give him easy jobs like mixing ingredients or keeping an eye on boiling water.

Xion

Their Favorite Recipe: Fudgy White Chocolate Brownies

You look so at peace when you cook that Xion really just likes watching you move around the kitchen in your bakery, crafting together ingredients to make something beautiful and delicious! She feels like you’re almost a magician with the way you can make such amazing food and she likes when you pull her forward to teach some tips and tricks.

#organization xiii #organization xiii headcanons #food #recipes #kingdom hearts headcanon #kingdom hearts

[batomarbo]

Why We Hunger for Novels About Food

While putting imaginary meals on the page, I have thought a great deal about the central role that food plays in our lives. Food is love. Food is conviviality. Food is politics. Food is religion. Food is history. Food is consolation. Food is fuel. Food identifies us and who we are. It can even help us make sense of our world. We live in a culture where food porn is one of the hottest hashtags and seeking out the best new ramen or avocado toast trend is a more popular hobby than collecting stamps. And the “culinary enthusiasts” among us can’t get our fill of books about food.

But what about authors of food fiction? What compels them to write about what—and how—we eat?

Louise Miller, author of The Late Bloomer’s Club “Food is the great equalizer—everyone eats—and what we eat and how we eat it can be so emotional and can carry deep meaning. Food can also be so revealing. I remember an old New Yorker cartoon that pictured a mother and her young daughter sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu. The mother responds to her daughter’s question: ‘Chocolate pudding? I think you would like it. It’s a lot like chocolate mousse.’ That one line tells us so much!”

Phillip Kazan, author of Appetite “Food for me is very tied up with memories of my Greek grandmother, whose tiny kitchen in London was a treasure-house of tastes and smells in the grey, flavorless world of ‘60s and ‘70s England, where olive oil was something you had to buy from a pharmacist as a cure for earache. Presumably the pharmacist in our village thought our family had appalling ear problems, because my mother bought hundreds of his tiny bottles of oil for her cooking. I remember cookbooks as this wonderful escape route to exotic, warm, generous places: Greece, from where relatives would visit with huge tins of olives and bags of sugared almonds; or India, where my father was born. Writing, in a way, is an extension of my cooking, and vice versa. Cooking taught me how to create, that I needed to create.”

Randy Susan Myer, author of Waisted “I grew up in a family where food was the comforting evil (or the evil comfort). My mother—for whom dress size was the holy grail—watched every bite I took. When in a restaurant, first she’d not order what she wanted and then she’d steal bites from my plate. If I protested, she’d say, ‘If you love me, you’ll share your food.’ Often, we barely had food in the house and meals were haphazard at best. My sister snacked on raw Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I ate uncooked matzo meal. We lived on cold cereal—which to this day is my top comfort food. My mother hid cookies and cake inside our giant pressure cooker and then put the pot on the very top of our already high cabinets. My sister and I were under ten, but a pressure cooker was no match for us. I’m surprised we didn’t become mountain climbers for how often we scampered up the peaks leading to buried sweets.”

Ramin Ganeshram, author of The General’s Cook “I’m from an immigrant family. My parents were from two countries that, at the time, had little representation here in the U.S.—even in New York City where I was born and raised. My dad was from Trinidad and Tobago and my mother was from Iran. I was also brought up in a time where people still really tried to assimilate so they downplayed their native culture with their kids. The one thing that remained a solid connection was the food we ate. I realized from a young age that I could get my parents to talk about their homes when we were eating the foods they had prepared from their respective cultures. My father, particularly, was a born storyteller and if you could talk with him while he was cooking you would get the best stories.”

Whitney Scharer, author of The Age of Light “The main character in my novel is based on Lee Miller, a woman who reinvented herself multiple times in her life—first as a model, then a photographer, and finally as a gourmet chef who wrote for Vogue and other women’s magazines of the day. In all my research about her, there was never any mention of her love of food prior to her becoming a chef. This makes no sense to me. Of course, she must have loved food—and she moved to Paris in 1929, where she would have enjoyed meals quite different—and presumably more delicious—than what she ate growing up in Poughkeepsie. I wanted her love of food to be palpable throughout the novel, both to foreshadow her shift to cooking later in life, but also because I think enjoying food—enjoying the pleasures of the body—is integral to who she is as a character. I see Lee Miller as a woman of voracious appetites: she was hugely ambitious and adventurous, and very sexual. Food seemed like another way to understand her overall hungers.”

Charlie Holmberg, author of Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet “In writing, I think food is an excellent method of transportation. If I were to detail a table setting with food you’ve never heard of, but I describe a flaky crust, the way a gelatin gives underneath a knife, and the smell of burnt sugar, you are there. You smell and taste and see that meal. It gives a story, ancient magical tales included, a sense of realness.”

David Baker, author of Vintage “A dish is a story . . . it’s the story of the culture that created it, the person who made it, the story of the ingredients and where they’re from, the tale of the meal’s creation—successful or otherwise—and then of sharing it. The whole process is a form of narrative. The same goes for wine . . . it’s the story of millions of years of geology that created the region where the fines grow. It’s the story of the culture of the region and then a time capsule of what happened weather-wise the year in which the grapes ripened, and finally what the winemaker did during that year. There are so many layers of narrative in food and wine that it’s a rich field for exploration in writing.”

Amy Reichert, author of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake “I didn’t realize I was a food writer until after people responded to my novels, and I’ve embraced it. One of my favorite parts of writing has become sharing my regional cuisine with them—writing about Wisconsin culinary delights like a Door County fish boil or our classic brandy old-fashioneds. It’s one of the ways I share my love of Wisconsin.”

Marjan Kamali, author of The Stationery Shop “It happened quite organically—pardon the pun. But it’s impossible for me to write about Iran and Iranians without including a lot of food because the preparation of huge meals is an integral part of the culture, and sharing those meals at feast-like parties is common across the classes. Food takes on added significance for my characters because they are displaced from their original home. They are Iranians living in America. There is a longing for the familiar foods they know and a constant search for ingredients they love. Cooking Persian meals links my characters to their past and heritage. Sharing Persian food with Americans is a way for them to create and deepen new relationships.”

Jenna Blum, author of The Lost Family “While I was writing The Lost Family, I cooked a lot—to meditate on the day’s writing as well as to kitchen-test all the recipes I then featured on the book’s menu. Some of my favorite lines for the book would bubble up that way, as if from a Magic 8-Ball, and one of them was ‘vegetables have no language.’ I revised this slightly for the novel, but it means that food is universal. The produce and spices will vary from country to country and cuisine to cuisine, but if you love food, you have a vast family out there. We can all communicate about how our beloved dishes are different—and how they are the same.”

*

I myself have been smitten with books about food since a friend of mine recommended that I read M.F.K. Fisher decades ago. I devoured The Art of Eating and everything else she had written. In her books I found both the exotic and the comfortable. I had never been to France or eaten escargot, but I reveled in her descriptions of food, in her use of simple phrases to evoke such specific sensations: “The air tastes like mead in our throats,” she writes in The Art of Eating. I hope to stir the same feelings and create the same sensory pleasures in others with my novels about famous culinary figures in Italian history.

Now this is a book I can really sink my teeth into, I thought as I once read the opening paragraph of The Flounder by Nobel prizewinner Gunter Grass.

Ilsebill put on more salt. Before the impregnation there was shoulder of mutton with string beans and pears, the season being early October. Still at table, still with her mouth full, she asked, “Should we go to bed right away, or do you first want to tell me how when where our story began?”

The rest of the novel, which tells the story of an immortal fish who meets an immortal man who falls in love with cooks over and over through the centuries, is just as delicious and delightful in its descriptions of food. To this day, it’s one of my favorite novels.

In reading The Flounder and other sumptuous works of culinary fiction, I’m reminded of something dramatist George Bernard Shaw once said: “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” It’s a statement to which I think we could all gladly raise a glass.

[aliesteem]

Quite the Sweet Tooth, A Quick Visit to Brooklyn’s Maison Kayser

There are a few factors I look for in a great bakery. It's delicious, unforgettable desserts, great prices, and even better hospitality. At Maison Kayser of 54 Court Street, Brooklyn I was granted all three. Walking into the crystal, clear glass doors plastered with a perfect letter grade A, I was met with the sight of elegant desserts and baked goods under the yellow glow of a huge display case. On top of these cases were straw baskets filled with bread like focaccia, financiers and croissants all baked fresh in the bakery. As I browsed at the view an employee came up to me to explain what flavors and textures each dessert included. They had no problem getting into depth about every single one of the desserts and was very educated, never missing a beat. I also notice how the line behind me quickly shortened. There were so many people being serviced by other workers. Their attentiveness to the customer really impressed me. I can tell they wanted buyers to have the most positive experience they possibly could. I saw three desserts that looked wonderful to try. These were Maccacino, Mangdor, Adagio, all some of the most popular cakes in the shop. They were packed in a glossy, beige and gold color box, Eric Kayser, the shop's owner, written beautifully in front in script. The box was handed to me with a luminous smile and I was directed to the bar or the lower seating tables where I can enjoy my purchase.

I sat down at a small, cozy area of the shop. The tables were shiny, pearly, white with short chair seats to match. I ordered green tea and began devouring our treats. I had a Maccacino cake added with a pistachio eclair frosted in forest green icing. I took a bite of her eclair and immediately was turned off. I knew I didn't like pistachio but I tried it anyway thinking maybe it would taste different under the recipes of Maison Kayser but it didn't. I harshly swallowed it down and immediately returned to my own special treats. The first dessert I tried was the Mangador, a round, glazed and ripe mango on top of vanilla custard and soft blueberry sponge cake. This treat was absolutely amazing. The mango was juicy and swirled in harmony with the berries. The custard gave a warm, familiar flavor on the tongue after the sour, boldness of the fruit flavor. I only meant to take a

few bites but ended up chowing down the whole cake with my friend who even wanted more.

The second cup was the Maccacino, cylinder-shaped mocha mousse cake with a crunchy, almond, chocolate center and topped with brown butter and almond crisp. This one was divine! I am a big fan of almonds especially with anything as sweet and buttery as a good caramel. The mocha truly reminded me of a nice cup of Joe at my favorite coffee shop and the center brought me back to my favorite candy Ferrero Rocher chocolates. It was because of that, that I suspected hazelnut and as I asked the waiter I was right! It was so delectable and I could not get enough. I couldn't believe such decadent, well-created desserts only priced $6 each. I felt I was tasting dishes as a fine dining restaurant. The classical French music playing gently in our background only added to the mood. My friend and I kept saying how “fancy” we felt and really excited about being in a place so new and refined. I found out by one of the waiters that unlike the bread, the desserts are baked and decorated in the Broad Commissary of Carlstad, New Jersey and shipped to Maison Krasyer daily. At the New Jersey site, there isn't one singular pastry chef but a collective of bakers that make sure nothing in the Maison Kayser bakeries is more than a day old and you can taste the freshness of ingredients clearly in every bite.

Lastly, was the berry cake covered in a rich chocolate ganache named Adagio but I didn't try that one until I got home and shared it with my mother. I have to say it was probably my least favorite. The chocolate was bitter, dark chocolate which I found overwhelming and the sharp sour off the berry cake inside did not ease the taste. It made me scrunch up my face and I didn't want extras like the rest of the desserts I tried. I simply gave the rest to my mom who was not a fan either. It ended up in the refrigerator and eventually thrown out. It wasn't necessarily that the desserts were poorly made as it was just I did not expect such intensity in flavors.

Overall, the experience was very comfortable and satisfying. I liked most of the desserts I brought and experienced quality customer service that blew me away. The bakery shop is very unique being that its French culture in the center of Brooklyn, NY which is not common. Locals are not used to these types of foods and this gives them the opportunity for people to try new, tasty, sweets they wouldn't have otherwise. Maison Kayser is a superb place to come for a cute, afternoon date with friends or a quick stop for baked goods to keep at home. I recommend to any who loves desserts and of course, I will be there again to try even more fantastic desserts.

[pynkhues]

mmmm what about....a head canon for Beth/Rio and food?Do they cook together? Is one flat out not allowed in the kitchen when the other is cooking?

Yesssss, I have SO MANY head canon’s about food with these two which is hilarious. 

1. Mostly because I think Beth’s a really good cook! And she genuinely used to love it, was adventurous with it, really believed all the stuff her grandmother used to tell her about cooking being an act of love, and so falling out of love with Dean had this weird side-effect of making her fall out of love with cooking. She still did it, obviously, but she got a little more reliant on Minions mac and cheese (the kids are too young to appreciate good food anyway), and tuna sandwiches and sure, she still makes cakes from scratch, but she used to make sinful chili chocolate cakes or honey-rich beestings or bold, bright funfetti cakes, and now she drags herself out of bed to serve up a vanilla sponge or a heavy chocolate one with a leaky, mousse centre. An sure, they’re still delicious, but Beth is dialing it in.

2. And the thing is, Beth doesn’t know much about Rio, but she knows he likes to eat. They haven’t eaten together all that much, or, well, Beth’s never eaten with him, but she’s watched him pour over menus in diners and cafes at drops, ask waitresses about how things are cooked, the cut of meat, vegetables that are in and out of season, in between lecturing her about rotten eggs and kicking bags of fake cash at her beneath the table. 

3. Still, it’s a surprise when she’s been nervously cooking all of Dean’s favourite things for the third week in a row and walks, exhausted, into the kitchen to find Rio there looking through the glass of the oven door, lips pursed and forehead creased. 

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, and he blinks lazily at her, like she should’ve expected him (which, look, at this point maybe she should have), and he talks like she’d never spoken.

“What’s this?” he asks, pulling the oven door open, and Beth grimaces. 

“It’s a Persian baked chicken and rice, with broccoli and almonds,” she says, and then, repeating herself. “What are you doing here?” 

“Smells good,” he tells her. “Is it ready?” 

She fumbles, flusters. 

“Yes, I mean - - it should be.” 

And that’s all it takes for Rio to don her oven mitts (and isn’t that a sight?), pull the thing out and serve himself a plate. Beth just stares at him, watching him start to stir the vegetables through, and then she blinks, rolls her eyes, breathes out an annoyingly anxious breath, “Wait,” she says, and he looks up at her, eyebrows raised. She sighs. “You serve it with a sauce.” 

She makes it quickly - plain yogurt, mint, garlic, lemon, and Rio watches her from his position leaning back against her kitchen counter. Somewhere in the background, she can hear Dean calling for her, and she’ll get there, she will, she thinks, drizzling the sauce over Rio’s plate. He watches her do it carefully, those dark eyes of his so focused, without saying a word, and then watches her make a plate for Dean. 

“I’ll be back in a sec,” she says, watching Rio take a mouthful. He pauses, looks down at it, and she ducks out of the room. When she gets back to the kitchen, Rio’s gone, his plate and fork washed and stacked on the dishrack, and half the bake and sauce and some of her Tupperware gone. She doesn’t think a lot of it until she gets a text later from an unknown number - a picture of two polished plates (One big, grey, the other smaller, plastic, with trucks decorating the edges) and a message: Good shit, Elizabeth. 

4. And it happens again a few weeks later, at Emma’s birthday party in the park. She’d insisted on a fancy tea party and so Beth had donned a blush-coloured dress with little red flowers, dressing up all four of the kids in their Sunday Bests and made enough cupcakes to feed a small army. Ruby and Annie and the kids had joined them there, sprawling out on picnic blankets and pushing out their pinky fingers as they’d sipped make believe tea and eaten real cupcakes to Emma’s absolute giddiness. 

She sees it in Annie’s face before she sees Rio, and she’s tense by the time she turns around, clocking him maybe ten feet away, a coy grin on his face as he tilts his head back, away from them. Beth scrambles to her feet, trying to smooth out the lines of her sundress as she follows him.

He ends up taking her to a small alcove between the playground and the baseball field, and they talk, only briefly, about a way to get through the counterfeit cash still stacked up in the storage unit a half hour out of town. Then, promptly:

“What’s the occasion?” 

And Beth blinks, surprised. “What?” 

He makes a point of looking her up and down, clocking her dress, her wedged sandals, her bright, gleaming jewellery. 

“Oh,” she gestures back to the group, where she can feel Annie and Ruby’s gazes, fixed at her back. “It’s my daughter’s birthday.” 

“How old?” 

Beth’s forehead furrows. 

“Six,” she says, and Rio nods along, like he knows, which, she reminds herself, he does. 

“Any leftover cake?” 

Beth laughs. 

“Really?” 

Rio just shrugs, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and he’s shameless, Beth thinks. But still, she spins on her heel, walks back and grabs him a range of them - the strawberry shortcake ones, the chocolate ones, the elderflower and lemon ones (so what, if that one was a little fancy? She’d felt inspired) and wraps them in a few napkins, ignoring Annie and Ruby’s questioning looks. She walks them back to him, and tries to ignore the fluttering in her chest at the way his face breaks into an easy, genuine grin. 

“I’ll see you,” he says, taking the cakes, “Happy birthday to your little miss,” and disappearing back through the park. 

5. “Is there a reason?” she asks him one day, sitting in the bar. He’s just interrogated the poor barman about the specials, and scoffed when the guy had said he wasn’t sure if the shrimp was caught wild or farmed. 

“A reason for what?” Rio says, taking a drink. 

“You and food? Is it a thing? You’re so…into it.” 

“Kind of need it to live,” he replies. “Likin’ food ain’t that weird, darlin’.” 

“Yeah, but there’s liking food, and then there’s-” she gestures vaguely at him “-whatever this is.” 

“You don’t like food?” 

And she stops, opens her mouth to reply, and then promptly closes it.

“I do,” she says slowly, and Rio nods. 

“You’re good at it.” 

She barks on a laugh. 

“At food?” 

He just hums in agreement, rocking back on his stool, and she shakes her head, oddly, suddenly, bashful. 

“Thanks.”

And then he’s talking about the job again, and Beth almost forgets all about it. 

6. Almost, but not really, and maybe that night she goes home and she pulls out her old recipe books, and she makes the kids something rich and something divine, and she watches them glow and laugh and maybe she checks on the backdoor a few more times than she means to, wondering if he’s smelt it, wondering if it’ll call to him, like her grandmother always said it could, when you made it right. 

(Haha, this kind of blew out. I have a million head canons about Rio being a completely terrible cook too and Beth lolling forever when she finds out because he’s such a food snob and also so good at everything else, but I might save that for another post). 

#beth x rio #nbc good girls #gg headcanons #my fic #kind of #i will die on the hill of rio being really bad at cooking #beth boland #rio #ruby hill #annie marks #jr good girls #domesticity

[flapperfromthefuture]

I’ve been experimenting with a couple of new ways to beat the winter blues—baking with such frenzy that I have to buy the 18 egg cartons and the person at the register asks me, “Big weekend plans?” every. single. time, and expanding my horizons with such gusto that I nearly got dropkicked by a jazz enthusiast.

Let me explain.

After watching a beautiful tombstone-grey sunset at 3:30 one October afternoon, I had the urge to bake because “You can’t stick your head in the oven if there’s other stuff in there.”

So I have been baking. Like, obsessively.

I’ve even gotten fancy. I made a povitica, the Aaron Burr of breads, with raspberry and then apricot jam (very sticky, but tasty). Then I wanted to try a savory challah, so I experimented with adding different amounts of cardamom and THEN za’atar.

I tried making challah with harissa because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was super messy working the harissa into the dough and then braiding it before the whole loaf could fall apart, but the end result was delicious and made my kitchen smell like a spice market in the midst of somewhere warm that is not Michigan.

I made two Bienenstich, or bee sting cakes, which I hadn’t attempted since my brioche class. I managed not to overdo the topping this time! No almond-induced structural collapses here.

Then I made this gigantic cinnamon roll, which the recipe claimed was an Estonian Kringla, and since the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had was in Estonia, I tried it out. And it was pretty good, but didn’t quite get me to pre-winter euphoria levels, aka enough energy to stay awake past mid-afternoon because it’s so dark outside.

My sister really wanted to make Halloween desserts together, which translated into me buying all the supplies and then baking everything myself while she lay on the floor.

She had just run a half-marathon . . . five days earlier.

I don’t like making Rice Krispie treats as they are a tactile nightmare. Everything you touch sticks to you forever and then continues to stick to you even after you die. I also gravely miscalculated how many marshmallows to buy (because weight and volume are different, apparently? School never covered that) and my mom will not let me live it down—anyone who stops by the house is asked, “Do you want something to drink? Or maybe some marshmallows? Elizabeth bought a thousand.”

Stella likes to say, “God knew you’d be too powerful if you were good at math.”

I don’t enjoy cooking as much as baking, but I made my yearly stab at sides for Thanksgiving. These harissa sweet potatoes looked beautiful but were a little too spicy for my weak-ass family.

(I also may have put in too much harissa. But it’s expensive and I wanted to use it all!).

A and I are officially in the throes of cabin fever, and when our beloved Midnight Madness rolled around, she decided that we needed to mix things up and elected to check out a jazz club downtown that we had never visited. Our friend Julia was with us and her mom was in town from the East Coast, so A thought we’d show them a sophisticated time . . . after visiting the holiday petting zoo, of course, and making a quick stop in the Himalayan Bazaar to see if the Yeti was around—he was not, because he never is, BUT I WILL SEE HIM NEXT YEAR SO HELP ME. 

Stella did not join us for Midnight Madness, electing instead to stay in and watch The Crown, which in hindsight, was too much of a gamble to take without supervision.

We swept into the jazz club with our heavy coats and dorky beanies and I immediately felt way too square to chill with the jazz cats. Everyone had sleek scarves and trendy eyewear and even the gorgeous modern light fixtures seemed to judge us as we sat at our table.

There was a lady wearing sunglasses inside. At night. In winter.

It was below freezing out. I thought, “Is this an awards show?”

I had only eaten roasted almonds and hot chocolate for dinner so I needed something revitalizing . . . or barring that, mozzarella sticks.

This jazz club did not have mozzarella sticks. Mozzarella sticks aren’t cool. They had charcuterie plates, pate, foie gras PB&J (why?), and charred baby octopus (WHY?), and everything was super expensive, but there was a jazz quintet onstage that seemed really legit, so I was excited to get some culture, even at the expense of mozzarella sticks.

A stared down at the menu like she could intimidate it into submission. She will eat anything, but draws the line at baby animals that have been set on fire.

“I don’t know what to get,” she said. “This never happens to me.”

“What are you guys ordering?” I asked Julia and her mom.

And then, out of nowhere, SLAM, a hand smacked our table loud enough to make me jump. An older man glared at me and said, “I’m not paying to hear you talk.”

He looked a lot like Santa, which made it even more distressing. I don’t want to get in trouble with Santa!

A is from Chicago and doesn’t take anyone’s shit (which is good for me, because to quote John Mulaney, “You could pour soup into my lap and I’d apologize to you“), so she looked Santa right in the eye and said, very calmly, “You don’t need to take that tone. We’ve never been here before and we’re trying to figure out what to order.”

Santa scowled and said, “Just be quiet.” Like we were children, which we are not. We patronize jazz clubs!

Just so we’re clear, A was the most well-behaved child who ever childed and practically showed up to preschool with a briefcase. No one has ever told her, “Just be quiet.” And I was so hyperfocused on craft kits and Legos that no one ever told me that either. In fact, adults scolded me to be less quiet because “You’re like a little ninja.”

“That wasn’t very Midwestern,” said Julia. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Mom. People in Ann Arbor are usually very chill.”

“He’s probably a boomer,” said Julia’s mom, who is a boomer herself, and incredibly cool.

We ordered our drinks and tried to enjoy the jazz.

Here’s the thing about jazz. People think they enjoy it, because music, right? Who doesn’t like music? Everyone loved La La Land, and there was jazz in that, right?

But what you don’t know about jazz, until you’re trapped in a jazz club with incinerated child octopi and furious boomers, is that the average jazz song is about fifteen minutes long. There’s the normal part, that sounds like a song and tells a story you can follow and enjoy, and then the improv starts. Every musician starts playing scales or hitting the drums in a way that should be exciting but really isn’t, and should build to something musically but really doesn’t, and then when they’re done the audience claps and the next person does the same thing, but it’s like listening to several minutes of joke set-ups with no punchlines. Over and over, until they just stop and then the next song starts.

“Are they going to do this for every song?” I thought about saying, but then did not, because I didn’t want to anger the man.

Instead, I checked my phone for a quick primer on jazz appreciation.

I still hadn’t eaten anything and A had declared that we wouldn’t be ordering any food so we could leave sooner . . . but not soon enough.

Other people were chatting and eating and enjoying the music, but I wasn’t doing any of those things.

A was glaring daggers into the back of Santa’s head.

Julia and her mom weren’t super into it either, to the point that Julia claimed that if she rushed the stage and pretended to be the next act by riffing on a triangle, no one would question it. Her mom was supportive of this, so it was time to go.

We said good-bye outside, relieved at finally being allowed to speak freely.

“That drum solo went on FOREVER,” said Julia.

“I thought the cymbal crash meant it was over but it just kept going!” said A.

“I really liked La La Land an hour ago and now I hate it,” I said.

So my journey to find something that will beat seasonal affective disorder back to whence it came continues. Will I go complicated and attempt to make my first panettone, which can take 24 HOURS to bake?

Or keep it simple and just get some mozzarella sticks?

          Baking vs. Jazz: Holiday Showdown I’ve been experimenting with a couple of new ways to beat the winter blues—baking with such frenzy that I have to buy the 18 egg cartons and the person at the register asks me, "Big weekend plans?" every.

#ann arbor #baking #food #music

[sun-summoning]

harukaozawa replied to your post “if you ever wonder where the hell i am, the answer is i am out living...”

Would definitely be interested in any fave recipes you have to share

OKAY THIS MAKES ME REALLY HAPPY :D

when i make anything with choux pastry i use this recipe. at first i would make eclairs bc they’re arguably prettier and seem fancier, but i prefer making cream puffs instead. rather than having an ugly crooked eclair, you get a cute little dollop!! and i’ll just use a star tip when piping to give it ~texture~ and add just a little bit to it. also it freezes very well after baked. i usually have a bag of pre-baked puffs in the freezer. when i need them, i just stick them in the oven for a few minutes so they can crisp up and then voila.

also this is going to sound douchey and i swear i’m not a snob, but i really do recommend mixing the eggs into your choux pastry by hand. and if you need a bit more egg than what your recipe calls for, then add it slowly. the recipe i use calls for four but sometimes the eggs are small or maybe i dried the flour clump out too much on the stove idk. but i’ve learned to just trust my instincts (obvs these must be developed) and drizzle in a bit more egg when necessary. and then if you have a bit of egg left over, you can egg wash (i never do that lol) or if you’re like me, eat scrambled eggs for dinner.

now for my pastry cream, i started off with this recipe. as a standard vanilla cream, it’s lovely! ngl i picked it bc it had the least amount of egg yolks required. some require like five yolks and that’s just too many egg white omelettes for dinner for me. 

anyway, i’ve since started playing around with that recipe as a base to make different flavours by infusing the milk at the beginning. when i want to make earl grey, i add maybe like three tea bags and let that sit when the milk is coming to a boil.

and then over the holidays, i was making peppermint bark but then my dumbass seized the freakin chocolate so i ended up with a clump of hard gritty minty chocolate. there’s not much to do with seized chocolate lol, but you can add it into something where it’ll be 100% melted. so in this case i added it to the milk!! um i added prob like 1/2 a cup of it and it made the cream a bit thicker. not that i’m complaining. but just saying.

i seized some chocolate like last weekend bc apparently i cannot do something as simple as melt chocolate. i’d like to try using that to make maybe a mocha filling? so i’ll just melt the chocolate when the milk is coming to a boiler with some instant coffee. 

i’ve been asked to bake earl grey cream puffs for my friend’s wedding. i was thinking of giving her a few flavours, one of which might be ube. one of my coworkers has already insisted on being my taste testers. my mom suggested using ube jam, but i think that might be a bit too strong, so i might make a basic pastry cream (sans the vanilla or maybe with just a dash?) and then mix the jam into that. idk i need to test this. fortunately the wedding is still in june. 

OKAY THAT WAS A LOT OF PARAGRAPHS ON CHOUX PASTRY.

these brown butter chocolate chip toffee cookies are delicious. i never have flaky sea salt on hand. also i’ve never made an effort to find it. i have shamelessly just used coarse. 

this is the almond biscotti recipe i’ve been using. i’m still trying to get all the bake times down properly. man do not cut the biscotti without a hefty first bake. it’s just a mess if the cookie is still too soft. i’m a dumbass. but i learned my lesson!

i like this macaron recipe bc it’s fairly foolproof and if anyone has ever made macarons before.....yeah. my first time was good. my second time they were chocolate and just ended up looking like little swirls of shit lol. they tasted good though!! but yeah i find with that recipe the cookies are always nice and chewy. i also find that they don’t really crack. rather, they stay true to the form that they went into the oven with. i’ve upped my egg white to about 75g, but i do want to see if adding some more will changed how it all turns out. 

ok so my mom loves cheese tarts and i love my mom for her birthday last year i got her half a dozen (that’s generally how they’re sold) from three different places and we kind of ranked them to pick our fave. love you uncle tetsu but i’m still sad that you closed your matcha store i loved those matcha madeleines so much. anyway, i made these tarts for the fam and everyone seemed to like it. i did find the filling to have a bit of a grainy texture. still delicious though. tbh i haven’t tried recreating them yet. my friends gave me a set of mini tart pans for christmas though so i’ll try again soon.

and madeleines!! ok plains ones are nice, but frankly i find them kind of lacking. my personal favourites are ones that have a good hint of lemon and some icing sugar dusted on top. i haven’t made them in a while, but i definitely have a phase. if you ever want to and you need to buy pans, i recommend not giving into the temptation of buying the baby sized ones where the madeleines are like the size of your thumb (prob smaller). they’re great, don’t get me wrong, but the i think the full sized ones are way better. also since they’re virtually little cakes, i have shamelessly put the mix into a greased muffin pan or tart pan lol. i ran out of space in my madeleines trays and wasn’t going to go through a second round of baking. my utilities yo.

and these chocolate cookies. a very simple recipe but somehow everyone i’ve ever fed them to absolutely loves them. they’re like brownies. also i’m a lazy fuck and will not be bothered with rolling out the dough and making shapes. i literally just make little balls, press my thumb into them, and then move on. and if i feel like making them pretty, i melt some chocolate, dip the cookies in that, then dip them in sprinkles.

AND TRES LECHES. i fucking LOVE tres leches cake. ok i don’t remember what recipe i use, but i want you to know i love it.

alright that’s all for now. if you made it to the end of this post, congratulations. 

#harukaozawa

[mangohealth]

My 13 Favorite Low-Carb Foods (and 3 to Avoid)

Finding low-carb foods that actually taste good and aren’t chock full of fake, chemical-laden ingredients is a tough pursuit—one I’ve been on since I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes nearly twenty years ago. But I never gave up! And now I’m going to share a few of my favorite products and recipes that will help you keep your carb intake low, keep your tastebuds happy, and fill your body with mostly whole, real delicious food!

Soft & Fluffy Bread Rolls from The Diet Doctor (recipe)

These are a staple in my house. I eat two or  to three small rolls every day and let me tell you, not only do I not need insulin for them (unless I melt some chocolate chips on top in the microwave), they also make your digestive tract sing thanks to all that fiber. While you may have to do a little shopping around to get the right ingredients (I highly recommend ordering Anthony’s almond flour and psyllium husk on Amazon for a good price), once you make them the first time, they become really easy. I make a double batch every few weeks and store them in the fridge and freezer so I can eat them every day!

Edamame Fettuccine Pasta from Seapoint Farms (product)

I’ve tried a lot of low-carb pastas. And there are a few good ones out there, but...this one is the best. First of all, you could eat half the box and only consume 22 grams of non-starchy carbs after subtracting the dietary fiber. The texture, the taste, the fact that you can’t over-cook it and accidentally turn it into mush—it’s just so good.  Even my stubborn father-in-law ate it and loved it! Honestly, I won’t bother buying any of my former low-carb pasta choices because this one is so exceptional.

Edible Cookie Dough from Lions Pack (product)

This peanut butter based “dough” is scary delicious. And sure, if you eat the whole jar, the carb count isn’t low anymore, but if you keep this tucked in the fridge for a spoonful (or two) after dinner each night as your “dessert,” the carb content is wonderfully low for something that tastes like a strawberry poptart or a s’more or a cinnamon roll or...Oreos!! Every flavor is gluten-free and vegan, and the flavor options are endless. It’s not cheap, but if it helps you stay on track and avoid the real Oreos, it might become a worthwhile staple in your home.

Bread, Bagels and More...from The Great Low-Carb Bread Company (product)

I love everything this company makes, but am especially impressed by the bagels -- which even my husband liked. Their breads are soft, fluffy, and look and taste like bread. Their low-carb recipe secrets focus primarily on a highly effective combination of oat fiber, almond flour, flax meal, and stevia. Did I mention many of their products are also gluten-free? Their hamburger buns and pastas won’t take away from enjoying those classic meals. They even have low-carb soft-pretzels. You’ve gotta check these out. Delicious, I promise!

Discover Chocolate from Discover Confectionery (product)

Oh, this stuff is good. Many of their flavors are deliciously unique (probably because this is a UK-based product), and it tastes and feels and looks like real chocolate! An entire bar will deliver about 13 grams of low-impact carbs, and is filled with real food ingredients--not chemicals and fake junk. The only flaw of this product is the price.

Flaxseed Muffin in a Mug from a variety of sources (recipe)

This muffin is one of my morning go-to recipes. It takes less than 5 minutes to make a single serving. It’s full of real ingredients, super healthy fats, lots of fiber, and sometimes...chocolate chips! Mix ingredients in a dry coffee mug. Microwave for 70 seconds. Pop it out onto a plate. Cut into 3 slices and add a little butter or...whatever! My favorite version of this includes a tablespoon of chocolate chips to get my chocolate fix without breaking the “carb bank.”

Quest Protein Bars from Quest Nutrition (product)

While I wouldn’t want to encourage using protein bars as a meal replacement (‘cause let’s be honest, they are definitely not made of “whole” food ingredients), these are a great go-to if you’re trying to avoid real desserts, or when you need on-the-go “Oh, my gosh, I’m starving” kind of food from the bottom of your bag. They come in a billion flavors, including birthday cake, cookies ‘n cream, and cinnamon roll. After subtracting the fiber, the remaining carbs are pretty low-impact, and they’re plenty satisfying.

Spiralized Veggies from a variety of sources (product)

Even if you don’t have the “as seen on TV” veggie spiralizer, you can buy pre-spiralized zucchini and carrots to make a your own low-carb “pasta.” (Yes, carrots contain some carbs, but hose carbs are coming from a source that’s a whole food, high in fiber, and packed with essential vitamins.) You can find them in the fresh produce aisle at your grocery store, or in the freezer section at Trader Joe’s, along with frozen cauliflower rice. Simply throw them in a large saute pan with a little oil, add some herbs or sauce, and you have a low-carb and super healthy “pasta” dish.

Really, Really Easy Breadsticks from Kirbies Cravings (recipe)

Ditch the starchy breadsticks and even the pizza crust and make this effortless zero-carb flatbread instead. Literally, you just toss eggs, cheese and herbs into a food processor. Zap zap zap. Pour that batter onto parchment paper in a cookie pan. Bake. Voila! 

Chia Seeds from a variety of sources (product)

Chia seeds are definitely trendy these days, but for a good reason: you can make delicious breakfast or dessert pudding with this little seed from Mexico. Soak in just a couple tablespoons overnight in your milk of choice (low-carb milks like coconut or almond would be ideal), and by morning you’ll find you have a thick cup full of chia seed pudding that only contains about 1 gram of carb after subtracting the fiber. You can make it sweeter with your preferred alternative sweetener, or jazz it up with a little peanut butter and a tablespoon of real chocolate chips. Checkout more easy recipe ideas from GnomGnom.

Zucchini Pizza Bites from LowCarbYum (recipe)

Honestly, you don’t even need to know how to read to make these. It’s so easy, and so customizable, too! Chop zucchini into medium-thickness slices and top with a little pasta sauce (check your label closely to avoid buying a high-sugar sauce), a little cheese and 1 slice of pepperoni per slice of zucchini. Pop them in the oven until the cheese is fully melted—delicious low-carb pizza night. Kids will like them. Picky husbands who don’t care about their carb intake will like them. I haven’t offered them to my father-in-law yet, but I bet he might even enjoy them, too!

Romaine Lettuce! No...seriously! Swap it for all bread....

The easiest way to cut the processed, starchy carbs from a sandwich or tacos or even a hamburger is to simply keep a giant stash of romaine lettuce in your fridge at all times. Lay strips of bacon with chopped tomatoes and mayo on romaine for a low-carb BLT. Ditch those corn-laden taco shells and turn Mexican night into a fresh crunchy salad by filling a bowl with fresh crunchy romaine lettuce. Add a little salsa, a little hot sauce, maybe a little more cheese...taco night never tasted so good! (And did you know, romaine lettuce is just as loaded with awesome nutrients as spinach and kale? )

3 “LOW CARB” FOODS TO AVOID

Shirataki Noodles

Okay, some people must love these, but I’m not one of those people. While they don’t contain carbs, these “noodles” are also  void of basically any nutrition whatsoever and come in smelly liquid with an unpleasant taste that takes a lot of rinsing and a lot of sauce to cover up. They also have a texture that makes me feel like I might be accidentally chewing on someone’s ear cartilage. If you’ve never tired, you should...at least once. But don’t surprised if you find yourself needing to make something else for dinner after the first bite.

Julian’s Bakery Breads from Julians Bakery (product)

These seem like a dream come true...before you’ve actually tasted them. I’m sorry to say that these extremely low-carb bread varieties are not only not tasty but even  hard to even swallow. I choked on the first bite, to be honest. They are dry, weirdly textured, and void of any real flavor (at least a flavor you’d enjoy eating). There must be diehard fans out there, because this company has been around for a while...but I’ve never met them.

Diet Soda

Many people will disagree with me on this one, but at least hear me out. A diet soda here and there--let’s say, once a week--is no big deal. But if diet soda has become your go-to source of hydration every day of the week, not only are you consuming a heck of a lot of chemicals, you’re also only going to make your sweet tooth crave more and more sweet things. When I finally quit drinking diet soda, things with no sugar in them at all started tasting deliciously sweet--like flavored seltzer with a dash of apple cider vinegar. There’s also a great deal of conflicting research on the safety of many artificial sweeteners, and on whether or not they may be increasing a person’s insulin resistance, because their bodies to need more insulin, not less.

About the author:

Ginger Vieira has lived with Type 1 diabetes and Celiac disease since 1999, and fibromyalgia since 2014. She is the author of Pregnancy with Type 1 Diabetes, Dealing with Diabetes Burnout, Emotional Eating with Diabetes, and Your Diabetes Science Experiment. Her background includes a B.S. in professional writing, certifications in cognitive coaching, Ashtanga yoga, and personal training, with several records in drug-free powerlifting. She lives in Vermont with her husband, their two daughters, and their dog, Pedro.

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The posts on this blog are for information only. They are neither intended to substitute for a relationship with your doctor or other healthcare provider, nor do they constitute medical or healthcare advice of any kind. Any information in these posts should not be acted upon without consideration of primary source material and professional input from one’s own healthcare providers.

#lowcarb #diabetes #type 1 diabetes #type1 #healthysnacks #healthysnack #lowcarbliving #dietadvice #insulin #chronicillness #digitalhealth