#cuke talks cars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

limerental · 2 years

Text

ficletober 2022 day 25 - it's steddie again ok

content warning for it gets a bit explicit and kinda yucky, otherwise it's just a redneck eddie character study with no context

Eddie's mama is good home Appalachian white trash through and through. Had him too young to know better. Still living with his Nana down in Virginia and sees her at Christmas sometimes, letters and postcards, phone calls on his birthday.

He thinks of her when Dolly comes on, how she'd swing him on her hip in Nana's kitchen with the radio crackling, dancing with a rhythm that rattled all the plates in the cupboards. How Coat of Many Colors made her bawl while she pet his hair.

This time it's 9 to 5, which Eddie never sang with his Mama and has no good reason to relate to given he's never held a lawful, regular position of employment anywhere but he's sure to give his best soulful, full-body performance to it anyhow.

The filaments of spiderwebs waver in the setting sun like cast fishing line, the air in the trailer park alive with little flitting insects you can't see unless the light hits just right.

It's August and a neighbor with a garden gave him a big bag of pickling cukes he's slicing into thin rounds while the brine comes to a boil, and Eddie's just started loading up the jars when Steve's car rumbles up and he slaps in through through the screen door, pink-cheeked from the sun in a tucked-in polo so bright-white Eddie feels like he'll get little smudged grease stains on him just walking into a place like this. His guilty little thought is that he likes that idea, getting gross oozing smears all over Steve Harrington in ways that last and last.

"Country?" asks Steve like it's a surprise, and Eddie cracks a grin, tapping a mad barefoot rhythm in the cracked linoleum.

"Sure, baby, I'm redneck as anybody," he drawls. "Plus Dolly's like. Genre-defying."

Ten years old when his daddy died in prison and by then he made an easy target in his podunk school. Weirdo. Whore of a mama, daddy who got caught dealing in a stolen car. Only thing worse than having a deadbeat, loser daddy was the pathetic, squint-eyed pity the locals gave him when the guy died. Shaking their heads and talking about what a shame it all was. No wonder that kid turned out like that.

Simpler to ship him off to live with his uncle up in Indiana, where maybe things would be easier for him. Thirteen when he met Uncle Wayne at the bus station, the guy taking one look at him with his daddy's too big acoustic guitar slung over his shoulders, and ruffling his hair, saying he looked damn like his mama, curls and big eyes and all.

Except turns out, something had already sunk in and festered in him, or else he was a born weirdo. Something his mama smoked when he was in the womb, something in his daddy's genes.

Whipsmart back in Coal Country, he's years behind the other students in Hawkins. He practices in the mirror to unlearn his mama's drawl. Things don't add up, compound into failing grades, summer school, teachers who think he's stubborn or an idiot or a class clown. The other kids laugh with him at first, teasing, joking together, and he realizes too late when that swaps into laughing at him. Freak. Weirdo. Easy target.

Steve steals one of the slices from the cutting board and crunches on it noisily, wrinkles up his nose like it's offended him.

"Eugh, that's a cucumber."

"Steve," says Eddie, wide-eyed and clasping his hands in a devout mockery of prayer against his face. "Steve, please tell me you know where pickles come from. Humor me. Pretend."

"Pickle… trees?" Steve makes a face. "Sensing that's not it, yeah, got it. How should i know? I'm not some kind of botanicalist, I don't–"

"Lord have mercy."

The plates rattle in the cabinets. The trailer's kitchen is glowing orange like fire while the sun tracks to the black edge of the horizon, and Steve can't dance for shit, always gets a little deer in the headlights when Eddie tries to hip chuck him into it. Slow, Steve puts his hands up high on Eddie's waist and tries to move with him, clumsy as shit but earnest, and Jesus Christ, Eddie wants to keep this guy snug in his pocket and feed him kitchen scraps. Get him a collar. Tug.

Eddie croons and tries to bid Steve to sing along, but he shakes his head, purses his lips. With the brine done boiling and the jars full of sliced cukes and fresh dill and coriander seed, Steve tuts over his pouring technique.

"Watch it. Quit wiggling while you do that. That's boiling fucking water."

"Chill out, my dude," he says, slurring extra syllables into every word, but he fills the rest of the jars with only some sloshing and pauses to wail out the last chorus. Kenny Rogers comes on, and Eddie jumps into an about face, gets both hands into Steve's back pockets and sways for the both of them. A jostle of his elbow has Steve lunging for one of the filled jars to grab it steady, brine spilling down his wrist and Eddie's lower back thumping against the sink, hemmed in.

Eddie licks the brine from the tendons of Steve's wrist, and the guy huffs.

"What now?"

"Figured you'd suck me off."

"No, like–" Steve's bright red in the square of burning light through the window. "With the pickles."

Eddie shrugs. "Let em cool. Pop em in the fridge. Pickles for the next month. Yeehaw."

He pulls on the neck of Steve's white polo, sees he splattered some spots of brine while carelessly pouring. It's just salt water, won't stain, but he drags his thumb along the wet patch above Steve's left pec and leans to taste, just to check.

"Jesus," says Steve, grabbing him by the hair while the flat of his tongue laps the brine, leaving a wet spot of drool behind on the fabric. "Anyone ever told you you're a freak?"

He says it all bubbling up with twitchy affection, fighting a smile. How absurd of the universe to land Eddie with a dude who'd smile all moon-eyed and fond over an impulsive chest lick. Calling him freak like it was something holy and awed.

Eddie's eyebrows disappear up into his fringe, all mock affront and shock, and then he's stretching out Steve's collar to drag him into an open-mouthed kiss. They like to kiss messy and fast, like the world's going to end between now and the moment they part. Maybe it will, someday.

"Call me a freak some more," says Eddie against Steve's mouth, their teeth a second from clacking, but Steve just licks back in and puts his thumbs in Eddie's belt and tugs and the light is fading enough in the kitchen that both of them are just a smear of black in the grey and they forget the open jars and take a few of them out with a spill even Steve's quick reflexes can't save and the brine slicks in fat drop off the counter and wets Eddie's shirt and hair where he's slumped down to the ground against the dingy cabinets with Steve between his spread thighs.

He cackles high like a coyote, salt and sprigs of dill in his hair, and it's Steve's turn to lick him clean like a mother cat.

He pulls some dill free, sniffs it, and says, "oh. Pickles."

And it's filthy on the kitchen floor, rarely-mopped and dusty, and it's filthy letting Steve lick brine out of the hair on his lower belly, even though he's pretty sure none leaked down that far. And it's not too sexy doing it to a Jimmy Buffet song on the radio, but Steve mouths every word against his crotch and Eddie shakes with silient laughter.

"If only Mama could see me now," he says.

"Don't talk about your mom while your dick's in my mouth."

"It's not in there right now, is it? See, my mama and I used to dance around barefoot in the kitche–"

He shuts up when Steve sinks back down. Hands and knees on the linoleum. Rumpled. Polo tugged out of his belt and hair a mess. He'll drag Steve down with him happily. He groans and sigh like something's dying in him. And maybe it is.

#my fic #ficletober 2022 #steddie #ok it's fine lmao #this was meant to be part of a larger thing but i decided against it #waht the hell and also fuck is it about these two that just inspires pure yucky gross absurd weird prose

101 notes · View notes

cucumbercar · 4 years

Text

Uh oh gay jet

#cyclonus #cygate #mtmte #lost light #maccadam #cuke talks cars

384 notes · View notes

protectorsofthewood · 5 years

Text

Abby and Wendy - Episode 34

GETTING READY TO GO

After walking back from the pre-school, Abby found Officer Harley chatting with a woman at the churchyard gate. She must have been in her late 60s, with white hair, loose skin under her chin, and a formal wool skirt and jacket that seemed meant for a cooler day and a previous decade. No one else was nearby. Abby knew that Sulay, Phoebe, and Nico would be having lunch with Zoe, so she hadn’t expected them, but wondered what had happened to the crowd of previous days.

“I’m glad to see a quiet day,” she said.

“At last,” returned the officer. “May we have many more!”

Abby was about to walk through the gate when he said, “Abby, I’d like to introduce you to Mary Robinson. We go way back.”

Abby turned and shook her outstretched hand.

“She’s a real old school reporter,” Harley said. “Nothing at all like that pack of wolves we’ve seen the last few days.”

“Now, now, I’m sure they’re not that bad,” Mary said, raising her index finger as if teaching a lesson. “Some of those people are my friends. But I admit that I’ve been hoping to avoid the crowd.”

She turned to Abby. “One of my friends told me you were taking business cards the last couple of days, and I don’t want to miss out. I write about politics for the Fellsburg Star. I know we’re not from the valley, but Fellsburg is still the state capital.”

“I’m happy to take your card. But why are you interested?”

“I cover the governor and the wheeling and dealing in state government, and I like to understand things. I like to know what I’m talking about, but I’ve been making no progress on the Rivergate issue. Why is the governor trying to empty a perfectly decent small town? I paid a visit to Rivergate last Monday. I’d read the Sonny Walker interview in the Evansville Record, and a red light went on in my mind. I’m missing something here. So I went and talked to Sonny Walker myself. I can see he was telling the truth. They actually have adjusted to losing the bridge. There’s no emergency that I can see. But Sonny pretends to have no idea about the governor’s motivations. He actually claimed that the governor is just ill informed! I’m not taken in by that nonsense, and I’m sure Sonny isn’t either. I’m supposed to come up with an article on this subject, but no one will tell me what’s behind this story.”

“Why would you think I know anything about it?” Abby asked. I’ve talked too much for one day, she thought. I’m not getting into it now.

“Let me thank you for your patience. I know people bother you day after day, sometimes in truly frightening ways. But I must tell you, young lady, I do my homework. I know… you know… things that I need to know. I respect you, indeed I do. So I assume you’re doing your best, doing the right thing in awful circumstances. So please keep my card. If you ever want to talk to me I’ll be here in a couple of hours. I still get around. And please hear me when I say that I know things you need to know.” The woman raised her index finger again, looking at Abby with fierce blue eyes. “I would tell you these things straight out because I like you, but I have a job to do. So I’ll trade.”

Abby was unwilling to promise anything. “I appreciate your offer,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Of course,” Mary said. “You’ll have to do your homework to have any trust in me. And you’ll also have to realize that you truly need information. I have that information.”

Abby didn’t know what to say. I might have that information already, but I’m not sure. Can I risk talking to her? Can I risk not talking to her?

“Thank you for the time, my dear. Don’t lose that card. One of these days you’ll need it. Bye now. Thanks for your time.” And Mary walked slowly to a nearby old jeep.

“I can’t believe she has a car like that!” Abby was bewildered.

“She likes to get around in the snow or rain. She was here in the church when the hailstorm hit. You have to take Mary Robinson seriously. She’s helped people get elected, and helped put people in jail. We go way back.”

“I just want to thank you for all your help!” Abby realized that she had underestimated Officer Harley. “And please, this world looks very big and confusing to me. If you ever see that I’m making a mistake, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“I’ll do that. You’re a nice kid with a lot on your shoulders. You’ve never had a reason to visit our station, but I’m sure you know we’re just down Main Street near Grove Avenue, next to the bank. The chief is always complaining that nobody ever tells him anything. Please stop by. You’ll be doing yourself a favor.”

She thanked him and walked her bike across the lawn to the cottage.

Abby couldn’t sit still. There were too many things to think about, so she got out the hoe and started in on the weeds. It was a job she didn’t like to do, because she had a weak spot for the weeds. In her opinion, weeds were perfectly good plants that nobody appreciates because they don’t understand them. This actually was Wendy’s firmly held view of the whole situation. The difference between Abby and her godmother was that Wendy knew the virtues of hundreds of wild plants, while Abby knew the virtues of only a few.

But people in this town expect an orderly churchyard,she thought for the hundredth time. They will take it out on Tuck and me if this place looks shabby to them. And I need something to do or I’ll worry myself into a panic.

So she started in on the pigweed, the galinsoga, and the mugwort growing between the rows of marigolds and snapdragons near the front fence. This was exactly the area that a pedestrian would notice.

Wendy told me galinsoga is called ‘quickweed’ because it will go to seed five times between May and September. It’s true, but I still like the plants, so vulnerable with those tiny white flowers, so easy to uproot. But you turn around and they are back again. Everything dies and is reborn. Kayla isn’t ready to think about that. I take it for granted. I assume it’s obvious, but of course it isn’t. So I put my foot in it, put the weight of this strange universe on that poor girl’s shoulders. What an idiot I am!

She moved on to the vegetable garden, and picked the last of the ripe vegetables. Abby knew perfectly well that she was starving. No breakfast, no lunch. She was losing weight in this stressful time. But she refused to go to Scutter’s, or up to Fred Peterson’s roadside market, or even to Sammy’s Coffee Shop.

I’m getting paranoid. I’ve got to get out of town.

She simmered another vegetable stew, ate the last of the cheese left from two weeks ago, and swallowed a lemon cuke from the garden. Feeling a little better, she lay down.

It’s already 3:30. I meet Lluvia by 5! What am I going to bring? A few extra clothes… a jacket… a hat… a toothbrush. And I actually have money! That’s all I can think of. Be back here by Sunday. They’ll probably break into this place again. Thank God my seeds are still with Jeremy and Reverend Tuck, and my papers and dreamstone charm with Phoebe. I’ll carry my notebook of new songs with me, even though no one could possibly care. And of course Lluvia’s note will always be on me.

Abby began to dream of the river. She could see it going by, and feel the boat rocking on the waters and the excitement of being swept along. She just went with it, and suddenly saw Lluvia’s face.

Abby sat bolt upright. Her timer read 4:15. Just enough time to take a shower and pack a few things. By 4:25 she was ready to go, and paced the room for ten minutes, saying a prayer. Then she slipped out the back window into the late afternoon sun. Around behind the apple trees she crept, through the wild area, and up under the scaffolding to the alley opening onto Old Stone Road. It was 4:46. She stood near the wrought iron door in silence, looking for Sulay or Nico. Nothing moved on Old Stone Road.

At 4:50 she unlocked the door and stepped through, locked it behind her, and crossed the street. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t look around. Stable Lane, the alley behind the backyards of the toy store and the coffee shop, was deserted. It was too early for soccer. People were eating sandwiches at tables behind the coffee shop. Phoebe was nowhere to be seen. Abby didn’t stop, but took a quick left through the open lawn between two apartment buildings. She crossed Marie Place, and disappeared into the trees next to an enormous run-down old house. Bending to the right, she slipped into the trees near the Main Street Bridge, and went on through the willow trees bordering the river.

Cemetery Bridge loomed ahead, showing the dark water running through a wide stone arch. The water was lower than usual. Abby hugged the edge of the river and crept under the bridge, sloshing through knee high water. A muddy bank appeared just ahead, screened by trees, with a few gravestones visible at a distance. It was a perfect spot for a small boat to secretly come ashore.

Abby waited impatiently. It was 5:02. Come on, Lluvia! Come on, Phoebe! The minutes seemed like hours. In a few seconds a canoe appeared out of the shadows, turned sharply, and slid up the muddy bank. Lluvia jumped out and pulled the side of the boat up the bank. She held the boat there as Abby embraced her, kissing her on the cheek, and mumbling, “Oh this is so wonderful!”

She looks so young, Abby thought, but she was a grade ahead of me. Lluvia’s black hair glistened. Her copper skin was chapped by the wind and sun.

“What fun!” exclaimed Lluvia. “Jump in.”

“But Phoebe’s supposed to be here. Oh, I don’t know what to do… where could she be?”

And suddenly Phoebe waded out from under the bridge and said in a whisper, “You’re still here. I’m so happy… let’s go.”

#Environmentalism #ecofiction #teenagers #green energy #novels #protectorsofthewood #climate change is REAL #climate change #protectorsofthewoodband #book reading #live music #Teenagers #graphic novels #environment #Young Adult Novels

2 notes · View notes

biteblue81-blog · 5 years

Text

Bread and Butter Sweet Pickle Chips

Home » Rose Water & Orange Blossoms Blog – Fresh and Classic Lebanese Recipes » Techniques » Bread and Butter Sweet Pickle Chips

My bread and butter sweet pickle chips are so simple to make, but huge on flavor and crunch. The sweet onion is as delicious as the cucumbers in these refrigerator pickles.

Here’s the thing about the abundance of the last three months up north in Michigan:

Yes, we’ve had that long-awaited access to local fruit and vegetables and long afternoons out on the bay.

Yes, we’ve enjoyed fresh herbs and mint galore from the garden.

Yes, we’ve eaten an abundance of chips.

Chips?

Chips.

In summer, it seems like every boat-picnic, every sandwich, every mid-afternoon crunch-craving is arrayed with chips, puffs, spirals . . . all of it. I can attribute the chip-factor to having kids around all of the time, and they keep bringing the chips in, but in reality I too count these food-like products among my guilty pleasures, that junk food I find most difficult to turn down. I kind of wish my junk food joy was more along the lines of fast food, because at least that would require me steering the car into the drive-thru, an act I could talk myself down from more easily.

Dan admitted to a handful of some Frito BBQ honey spiral thing he had at the dealership this summer and how very crunchy, how very salty-sweet and “koo-koo” it was. Don’t you know that I would not rest until I had my own handful of the bad-boy koo-koo?

Now, it’s also true that our lunch-crunch is made with chips of a higher order, with pickle chips. We eat a TON of pickles around here, from the babies to the Sittees. Do you same? I know that pickles on the table three meals a day are a Mediterranean tradition, and a very Lebanese tradition, so maybe our constant pickle is rooted in that.

While pretty much any pickle is welcome, I really want mine to crunch and have some body. For as long as I can remember, nary a sweet pickle is eaten in the presence of my mother that she doesn’t say that her mother made the BEST bread and butter pickles. Alice put the thickly sliced sweet little cukes in a huge crock in the basement every fall and the family would feast until they were gone, which was always too fast.

Why O Why did my mom not write down her mom’s recipe? And why didn’t she try to recreate the pickles years ago when my grandma’s method was still fresh in her mind?

All I can say is that the “door closes/window opens” adage applies very much to my sweet pickle goals. One of my many, many cousins, Jim who I’ve mentioned before because he is my special cooking guru who does everything from sous vide to lemon ice cream (with lemons from his yard) and cultured butter in his kitchen, also does a perfect sweet pickle.

He first told me about his pickles when I was living in San Francisco and he came visited for Thanksgiving. He gifted a beautiful jar to Dan and me for our hotel room stay when we were out his way a few years ago (along with other extraordinary hotel-room picnic treats…it was a stunner). I started in on his pickles and never looked back.

The key is to keep the cuke crunchy and bright, and to give the sweet onion an equal footing to the cukes. As with salad, even if you don’t want to eat the onion (why though?), it has to be in there for proper balance of flavor. We keep the process simple and avoid the heat that cooks and softens the pickles by making these refrigerator-style, where they’re kept cold and crisp, rather than on the shelf. I take this concept another step beyond by not cooking my pickling vinegar/sugar liquid. Just let the sugar dissolve without boiling; it may take a few minutes, but it’ll happen.

Now that we’re full-boar in sweet pickle season, I make small batches often. Step aside, you devilish junk food chips. Summer is done and I’m done with you. Your koo-koo doesn’t hold a candle to my sweet cuke koo-koo pickle on my plate.

These are refrigerator pickles, so no heat processing is used. Fill the jars (I do love a Weck jar...) as tightly as possible with the pickles and onions, as they will shrink some as they pickle. This recipe is easily doubled, tripled, you name it.

1 1/2 cups vinegar (plain white, apple cider, or white wine vinegar work well)

1 cup granulated sugar

2 teaspoons yellow mustard seeds

1 pound pickling cucumbers, or small thin cucumbers

1 large sweet onion

In a quart measuring cup or bowl, combine the vinegar and granulated sugar. Whisk occasionally, until the sugar is completely dissolved. Add the mustard seeds.

Trim the ends of the cucumbers and discard. Slice into 1/4- to 1/2-inch rounds. Trim and slice the onion into 1/4- to 1/2-inch half-moon slices. Toss the cucumbers and onions in a bowl to combine.

Pack the cucumbers and onions as tightly as possible in clean jars. Pour the pickling liquid over all in both jars, spooning the mustard seeds in to evenly distribute them.

Close the lids and refrigerate for about two days before serving. Pickles will stay nice in the refrigerator in their pickling liquid for a few weeks.

(Visited 635 times, 3 visits today)

Source: https://www.maureenabood.com/bread-and-butter-sweet-pickle-chips/

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

0 notes

downtownbrooklyn27 · 6 years

Text

Barbara Henning

from DIGIGRAMS

Kiss Me / Feb 26, 2016

—dreaming—on my bike—in Detroit—pull up to a bungalow—a guy tells me—over there—chain up—I know him from long ago—inside some kind of sale—models with skeleton key necklaces—things out of hand—brutal hand-to-hand—some politicians—outside under an elm tree—bike gone—sorry they spray it with something—it pops open—bike skeletons everywhere—minus a wheel or handlebar—under his breath, a curse—he might shoot me—so cold at the bus stop—I take a cab—passing the VA hospital—I remember the guy—my hand in his—he was kissing me—

Morning Glory / Mar 2, 2016

—a Ukrainian woman on the bus—how do you pronounce “via”—Americans have dialects?—she’s excited—and boy does it matter—up the aisle—a young teenage girl talks into her cell phone—about “footlocker”—how they don’t have interesting sneakers—child, she says several times—you’re not going to blank on me, are you?—like a biker child whose been riding all day—windblown hair—I can’t see her face—her sneakers are turquoise, orange and yellow with green laces and pink holes—a morning glory is a master of change—in one day its petals can shift—from blue to pink and sometimes red—exiting the bus, I glance back—a pudgy 13-year-old white boy—each number is a child—according to the American Dialect Society—the word of the year is “they”—

It’s Us / Mar 3, 2016

—what would you do—I say—in class—to a young woman—she wants to be a nurse—if a doctor told you—give this medicine to a patient—you knew he was wrong—it could be fatal—calm, collected, logical—maybe you’d lose your job, I say—trying not to panic— the numbers on the meter jump—she says, calmly—I’d give it to the patient—we were all like—Whoa!—well, I’d lose my job—that would be murder—the bully stares back at us from the mirror—ugly and frightful-haters, bashers, hucksters—it’s us—bundled like an old mummy gliding down the street—I head toward—a bundle of—yet-to-bloom crimson peonies—loose ends—catch them up—quietly with as little movement as possible—

So Says Ovid / Mar 4, 2016

—Dad died 20 years ago—Jean says—Patti says it, too—Just like that—time sky and night—over and gone— in the times today—the bully’s name appears—above the fold—eleven times—he-who-must- not-be-named—laundry in the washer—the dryer—folded into drawers—vacuum rug—blowing out my bronchi—this and that horn—order a mattress by hitting a key—sweaters folded flat—like a sandwich—I say I’m competitive—a young robust physical therapist laughs—believe oneself well and one will be well—so says Ovid—at Angelica’s eating chickpeas—Canada and Israel have a robust trade—in chickpeas—text a question to my ex—where did we buy those dishes?—ASAP he calls back—his voice so faint—I can barely hear him—he used to whisper in my ear—oh I loved him so—my phone line crackly—like an egg shell inside—

It’ll Come To An End / Mar 10, 2016

—like Spring out today—don’t need a coat— it’ll come to an end—the Maple Leafs coat the islanders—the earth moving closer—let the GOP have the bully—they deserve reality tv—your lungs will be better now—says the herbalist—try not to think too much—about politics—the bully whale dying—from bacteria in his lungs—after killing three young workers—at Seaworld—this will take a long time —maybe longer than I have—look at you, Kumar says—drumming the floor with his foot—you are much much better—at Trader Joes local organic cukes for 69c—I buy three—one organ takes over—for another—retired subway cars dumped into the ocean—now artificial reef—cross-legged on the floor—Martine and I share Indian food—in the Steinway building—marble hallways—piano memories—like misguided golf balls—bouncing 263 yards into a chilly wind—

Barbara Henning is the author of several collections of poetry, her most recent A Day Like Today (Negative Capability Press 2015). Other recents include A Swift Passage (Quale Press), Cities and Memory (Chax Press) and a collection of object-sonnets, My Autobiography (United Artists). She has published three novels, Thirty Miles to Rosebud, You Me and the Insects and Black Lace, and she is the editor of Looking Up Harryette Mullen and The Collected Prose of Bobbie Louise Hawkins. Born in Detroit, Barbara now lives in Brooklyn and teaches for Long Island University, as well as writers.com. More info at http://barbarahenning.com.

0 notes