#i still have so much of the fried vegetables in my pan it was impossible to fit all in the plate

[oak23]

What are your recommended go-to healthy meals?

Honestly, the only real approach I took to my healthier eating is "more protein less carbs" proportionally in a meal since I am an incredibly picky eater and the idea of eating a "healthy meal" initially seemed impossible.

And this isn't to say carbs are evil, but carbs don't really fill me up that much yet have higher calories compared to protein, so I tend to overeat on carbs if given the chance. I can eat a whole loaf of bread in one sitting if given the chance but I can only eat a much smaller amount of steak.

Plus protein is good for muscles and all the gym bro stuff, but it also helps you feel satiated for much longer and it doesn't give you the massive energy crashes that high carb meals can do.

Like, I love a burger with fries to round out a meal. But comparatively, that's a very high carb, low protein meal especially if I get a meal with a large fries and like, a single patty burger. If I go out to eat with friends nowadays, I usually get a burger with two or three patties and maybe a small fries so I still feel full but I eat less overall.

Same with rice and pasta dishes. Before, I could eat a whole bowl of rice or pasta with like, nothing but a sauce. But nowadays, I bulk up the meal with more vegetables and protein just so I'm eating the same volume of food but less carbs and more of everything else.

Proportionally, all of my meals are basically one third meat, one third vegetable, one third carbs. I know how hard it is to go from eating without ANY thought into what you eat, into having to count calories and shit, so I feel this approach of visualising food first then slowly building up to healthy meals is an easier method.

But yeah my go to meals are usually chicken, rice and vegetables since I can meal prep a bunch of it then have it ready to eat throughout the week. I usually leave it plain when I meal prep so I can switch it up when I reheat it with bottled sauces.

Sometimes I eat salmon or steak, not because it's healthy (it is though) but because I can pan fry it on each side for 4 minutes each and it's ready to eat soon after. I usually salt and pepper each side, pan fry it, then let it rest. You can also make a pan sauce with the fond on the pan using a bit of wine and butter then put the sauce into a separate vessel.

While it's resting, I fill the frying pan with water and blanch my vegetables for a few minutes. You can let meat rest but you want your vegetables to be as freshly cooked as possible for a good meal. Plus blanching it in the same pan means the water has made the pan easy to clean afterwards. I have a bag of frozen broccoli that I use but I do pick up fresh vegetables if I know I'm cooking it within the next few days.

Uhhh, for snacking or just, smaller meals, I really been loving flavoured greek yoghurt. I have a big tub of it that I graze upon throughout the week when I'm slightly peckish but not full blown hungry.

Roasted nuts is also a nice snack as it's protein too and it's something I keep in my bag for myself.

I also love apples and other fruit too but I know that's like, normal health food.

Like, I really don't think you need to overhaul your entire diet if you don't intend to be an athlete or body builder, and that you don't need to give up everything you like, the key is moderation in what you eat.

Side note, I do believe that you can indulge in cheat meals occasionally, but I do not recommend in indulging in cheat days. A cheat meal is a lot easier to go back on but I find that allowing a whole day to eat whatever really fucks me up really badly and I tend to binge like crazy because of it.

But yeah, my approach of less carbs more protein worked for me but I know everyone has unique eating habits and what worked for me might not work for others so I tried to be a lot more general than just "go eat boiled broccoli and protein shakes".

[overwhore-s]

A Freak in a Sheet (Ghost!Bakugou x Reader) part 2 NSFW

part 1 

AO3

There are more advantages to living in a haunted house than just cheap rent. 

Warnings: swearing, sex (gender-neutral reader)

It was a shit day if you’ve ever had one, and at the end of it, you just want to curl up on the couch and binge the fuck out of Keeping up with the Kardashians. Kicking off your shoes, you call out to Bakugou.

“You wanna see what Kim’s been up to?”

“Fuck yeah I do!” He answers from the living room. You grin. You are extremely lucky to live with someone who shares your passion for cheesy reality television.

When you walk into the room, he’s already waiting for you, TV remote in hand. “You look like shit,” he observes upon seeing you. You don’t take it personally though, knowing it’s his own unique way of encouraging you to open up about what’s been troubling you.

You stifle a yawn and plop down next to him. “Tough day. Customers were acting entitled as usual. And I forgot my wallet at home, so I didn’t have enough money for lunch. Or dinner.” Honestly, worse things have happened to you. It won’t be the first, nor the last day you went without eating.

Bakugou doesn’t see it that way.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” He yells, jumping up from the couch, surprising you.  “You can’t be skipping meals!”

“It’s okay dude, I can just order takeout or something,” you try to calm him down, but Bakugou is bit like a really spitty cat when he’s angry – the more you try to soothe him with words, the more aggressive he becomes.

“No pizza for you today. No fucking way. We’re gonna cook you a real ass dinner with real ingredients,” he huffs, already on his way to the kitchen. Confused, you trail after him.

The concentrated manner in which he gathers all his supplies tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He definitely has a presence in the kitchen, like some Michelin chef. And his chopping technique! You’ve never seen anyone chop onions that fast.

“Whoa,” you say, feeling kinda awkward just standing around and letting him do all the work, “you’re really good at this.”

His cheeks redden, his hand holding the knife slowing down momentarily. “So what If I am?!”

“Man, you really need to learn how to take a compliment,” you chuckle, “what are we making, by the way?”

“Fried rice. So make yourself useful and grab me a pan and a bag of rice, would you?”

“Roger.”

You work well together, you think. While he takes care of chopping and cutting the vegetables, you heat olive oil on medium heat, waiting for that tell-tale sizzle. You soon catch yourself humming some tune you heard on the radio at work, hips swaying as you stir the vegetables, rice and meat Bakugou put in the skillet. You giggle as he makes you surrender the frying pan so that he can toss the rice, and subsequently you marvel at how expertly he’s doing it. It’s been a while since you last cooked. You almost forgot how fun it is – even more so in good company.

“A shame we don’t have cashew nuts,” said companion murmurs, frowning at the contents of the pan after they’ve been tossed and fried and spiced to his liking. He looks at it almost longingly; you can’t help but notice. Ghosts can’t smell or taste anything. Bakugou told you he feels things, like pressure or texture to a certain level, but only if he concentrates.

“Ah, well, this is a low-budget kitchen,” you wave your hand in dismissal, eager to lighten up the mood. “Never mind though! It smells absolutely delicious!” And it looks absolutely gorgeous, but you don’t say that aloud, fearing his ego might explode.

“You should taste it before serving, just to be sure,” he suggests, already bringing a spoon to your lips. You hesitate for a second, suddenly hyperaware of all the sounds, smells and sights in the kitchen. The oil sizzling. The sweet smell of spices and fried onion. Bakugou, staring at you expectantly with an undecipherable expression on his stupidly attractive face as you part your lips and slowly, tentatively lick the spoon.

He shouldn’t have need for oxygen, but his breath hitches all the same.

“So, how is it?” He asks, voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

“Delicious,” you answer, but in truth, it’s not the food you’ve been paying attention to.

He positively glows in the kitchen lights. Like some otherworldly, ethereal being, and in a way, he is one. You look at him and have to fight the impulse to touch, hold, never let go.

“That’s all?” He questions further, with that adorable frown of his.

And his lips. They look soft. If you were to kiss him, right now, right there next to the stove under the lights and in your silly little apron, would he reciprocate it?

Stop it. You’re being disgusting. He’d probably, no, certainly think so, and push you away and never talk to you again.

“Why don’t you taste it as well?” You blurt out, realizing your error far too late. The spoon has already been pushed to his mouth, conveniently open as he was about to say something – most likely tell you to get fucked – and then he swallows and his eyes widen like he’s discovered something amazing.

“You…” You start to say, only to get immediately cut off by him.

“How in hell is this possible?!” He shouts, but not angrily, more like he can’t hide his excitement. “I…could taste it. The onions. The carrots. The…the fucking chili.” He brings the spoon to his mouth one more time and here it is again – that glint in his eyes. To the evident surprise of both you and him, he laughs, a rich, beautiful sound you’ll never get sick of.

Happy Bakugou is a foreign concept, but you like it very much.

“You kidding me?!” You exclaim. “That’s excellent news! Does that mean your sense of smell is back as well?”

He sniffs the air before grinning widely. “It wasn’t there just a few minutes ago, but now there’s no mistaking it. That’s some good fucking fried rice we made, all right.”

We made. You and Bakugou, together. And for some reason he can feel like a human now? You can only speculate why that happened, but maybe your grandma would know? She’s the one who introduced you to the world of the not-living, after all. You have to ask her, gosh, she’s going to be angry with you for not giving her a call in so long – but first, first you have to hug Bakugou.

And so you do. You squeeze him for all you are worth and he responds in kind, arms wrapping around your back to press you even further into his firm chest. As always, he’s slightly cold to the touch, but warms up quickly enough.

The hug lasts for ages, and as much as you wish to fall asleep like this, the food must be getting cold. You wonder if he can eat it with you – it’s not too much to hope for, is it?! – but when you attempt to wriggle free from the embrace, he grunts and presses you against him even tighter. And that’s when you notice, when you feel it, the unmistakable hardness poking you in the lower belly.

Oh. So that works too.

This is impossible, and flattering, and far too tempting to not comment on.

“All that just from a hug?” You tease, as if you yourself weren’t practically dripping just from him spoon-feeding you.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Well, he doesn’t have to tell you twice.

You kiss him like your life depends on it. He appreciates the intensity of it, judging by the groan escaping from low in his throat, the way his hands drop from your sides to knead at your ass. He slides his tongue into your mouth, rubbing it against yours. You’re only kissing and your head is spinning already.

He nibbles at your lower lip before releasing it and looking you straight in the eye. “You want more?” He asks, urgently.

Incapable of responding verbally, you only nod.

He gives your ass one last playful squeeze before lifting you up onto the kitchen counter, the fried rice all but forgotten as you dive in for another heated kiss. Bakugou, you find, is a very hands-on kind of lover. His calloused palms venture under your shirt, exploring your smooth flesh and curves with unhidden curiosity.

“So soft,” he informs you in between kisses, making you blush even more if that’s even possible, “and you smell nice.”

You disagree, seeing as you’re in a sore need of a shower after the long day you had, but you’re not about to argue with a man who has his tongue in your mouth.

He lifts the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head, chuckling when you get trapped, and gasping when you free yourself and grind against his still clothed cock in revenge.

It soon becomes painfully clear the kitchen won’t survive you fucking in it once you knock over the bottle of chili and it spills on the ground, creating an ominous red pool.

“Bed?” You say, breathlessly, and he agrees. “Bed.”

You stumble into the bedroom as in a drunken haze, and while you remember him undressing you on your way to the bed, him becoming suddenly naked was not your doing. Well, he is a ghost. You can’t exactly say you’re bothered by it, as it saved you significant time and trouble.

“Before we do this,” you whimper as he lavishes your neck and chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses, “I need t-to tell you…”

He slides further down your body, positioning himself between your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat, knowing what he’s about to do. “B-Bakugou…”

“You can tell me later. Just relax now,” he purrs, his hands spreading your legs further apart. You close your eyes and press the side of your face into your pillow.

The very first touch of his tongue to your overheated sex is enough to send your mind reeling. You whine, wanting more pressure, but he keeps you in place, keeps teasing you with short little licks and bites to your inner thighs. It’s infuriating. Every time he brings you close to the edge, he purposefully slows down, robbing you of your release. It’s hardly fair; he hasn’t so much as felt anything in years, you’ve only gone without sex for months, so how does he find himself with so much more patience than you?

“I think you’re ready for it now,” he notes, finally reappearing from between your legs.

“I have been forever now, thanks for noticing,” you roll your eyes.

He narrows his eyes at you.  “If you don’t like it…”

“Never said I don’t! Shit…look…j-just do it already, okay?!” You bite your lip, looking at him pleadingly without actually saying please. You’ll save begging for later. Something’s telling you you’ll need it.

Bakugou’s expression is that of concentration as he aligns himself with your entrance. “Say if it hurts.”

It doesn’t. You thought it would be cold too, but he’s just as warm as a real man. He is a real man, you remind yourself. He certainly takes you like one, all hard thrusts and savage grunts as he chases his, and your release.

And God fucking damn it, he’s beautiful. Illuminated by moonlight, shining with sweat – yours? Do ghosts even sweat? – producing all those sounds that are pure music to your ears. You run your fingers through his spiky, soft blonde hair, scratch his scalp and have him reward you with a particularly deep thrust. It’s usually awkward with new lovers, not knowing what they prefer, having to learn it the hard way, but with Bakugou, you fuck like you were made for each other.

This round – because you know there will be more – looks like it’s going to be a short one. You’re too overstimulated from his earlier ministrations and Bakugou, well, he isn’t exactly pacing it out with how fast he slides in and out of you.

In the last few seconds, as need for release overdrives all his senses, he grabs onto your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave bruises, and buries himself into you for one last time before coming with a shudder. You’re close behind, burying your face into his shoulder while babbling incoherently. You don’t believe you ever came this hard. Your ears are ringing, heart beating fast like a hummingbird’s.

“What?” He asks, petting your hair comfortingly as you try to catch your breath. He sounds fine, if not a little dazed. His chest does not heave with uneven breaths, nor is he all red and sweaty in the face. And, the wetness sticking to your inner thighs is all your own.

“You wanted to say something, before,” he murmurs, as you begin to calm down, “so what was it?”

You meet his eyes with your own, finally. You must look like a mess, but he doesn’t seem fazed. Instead he stares at you like you’re the only thing on Earth he doesn’t hate, and the feeling’s mutual.

“I love you, you asshole,” you sob.

“I love you too idiot. So whatcha crying for?” He frowns, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. You lean into his touch, drawing a sharp breath before answering.

“I’m just so damn happy.” And you are. Really. You’ve spent years believing there wasn’t a person alive who could possibly love you in a way that you deserved, and turns out you were right.

You lie there for a while, limbs intertwined, dreaming up a wonderful future together, until you’re propelled to sit up by a terrible thought. “The food!”

“Shh. You can still microwave the shit.”

“But it won’t taste as good! I don’t wanna let your good food go to waste…”

“Hey.” He pulls you back into the bed just as you were going to leave it. “I can bring it to you. Get some rest, pipsqueak.”

Fried rice in bed?! The man wants to spoil you.

And you don’t mind in the least.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou smut #if you are reading this i am sorry mom

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: junhui x reader ⚬ word count: 8125 ⚬ warnings: none! ⚬ genres: secret relationship, some slice of life uni moments, FLUFF, very light angst, spice, roommates!wonhui.

✧✎ synopsis: you’re friends with junhui - but also, not really. it’s friends and a little bit more than that. it’s difficult keeping your relationship a secret, especially when you’ve never loved someone the way you love him.

✧✎ a/n: NOBODY MOVE! I WROTE A JUN BDAY FIC ;_; this is really just me projecting all my years of love onto a word doc. enjoy!!

It was midnight, and the apartment was dark, unmoving. No one had bothered to clean the blue cereal bowl left in the sink and there remained bread crumbs on the countertop from lunch. As you flicked through the strange glimpses of late-night television, yawning in an outrageous width, there was a hunger pang, accompanied by an immediate craving for some sort of sweet candy.

So, you did what seemed best: fit into your sneakers and a windbreaker and push open the door to Jun’s bedroom while he was curled up on his side watching his drama. Wonwoo would usually be occupying the adjacent bed, though he had stayed over at Joshua’s dorm to study for his next history summative. Yet he’d left his beat-up, decaying textbook on his pillow.

“Put on your slippers or something, we’re going to the convenience store.”

Jun didn’t say anything, rather he continued holding out his phone, the bedsheets pulled taunt to his nose. Looking at Jun’s desk that sat next to the door, you picked up the rubber band ball he’d been adding to since his twelfth-grade year and threw it at his shoulder.

“Ow!” He squeaked dramatically. His head then poked over his shoulder as he attempted to see where the ball rolled off to.

“Put on your slippers,” you reiterated, “I want strawberry tangs.”

Without much effort, Jun quickly gave up looking for the elastic ball and returned to watching his drama, establishing his comfort while somehow still persisting to ignore you. He was very much so a homebody, and if it weren’t for you guiding him out the apartment like a grandchild taking their elderly for an afternoon walk, then he might’ve never left his bedroom apart from his class schedule. Yet, you knew exactly how to persuade him, weaken his heart that was already soft and golden.

An immediate whine rumbled in his throat when you jumped on the bed, pulling at him until he finally rolled onto his back, at last pressing pause on his phone. You tossed a thigh over each side of his silhouette and gripped the boy’s wide shoulders, gazing unflinchingly past his black fringe and into those big, glistening eyes.

“Come with me to the store,” you weren’t sure if you were offering or demanding, “please?”

“I-Isn’t it a little late for that?” Jun stumbled through his laughter. “Why do you need me?”

It was a surface-level question really, but nonetheless, your heart still skipped a beat. In only a second or more the silence was bearing down too heavily and it felt like your heart was a book with all its pages out. Jun’s eyes were twinkling as he blinked up at you.

“Walking around alone at night? Hello? Do you have no concern for me?” Came your joking counter.

He tossed his head back, the black fringe bouncing from his lashes. His capitulating yelp of, “fine, fine, I’ll come” was satisfactory enough for you to remove yourself from the boy’s tiny waist, where you stepped on the floor and nearly sprained your ankle due to that dumb, elastic ball. At least you found it. While you returned the toy to his desk, Jun quickly threw a worn jean jacket over his black long sleeve and didn’t bother bending down to fix his sneakers, his heels jutting out the back.

At the convenience store, the only shoppers were you, Junhui, and this lady wearing a huge pair of sunglasses, though you figured she was far from the strangest of the midnight stragglers.

It was rather quiet, even with the fluorescent lights buzzing and the battery-powered fan keeping the cashier cool at the register. You grabbed the first package of strawberry tangs while Jun sorted through the other flavours very meticulously.

“What about blue raspberry?” He said. “You don’t want that?”

“I don’t know, I just really have a craving for strawberry.”

Jun detached a bright green package from the rack. “Sour apple? What about that?”

“Not tasty at all. Pass.”

He grabbed another package and quirked his eyebrow. “Sweet cherry? Come on. That sounds good.”

You lightly hit his arm with the strawberry candy, your laughter echoing over the shelves, “I just want strawberry! If you think the sweet cherry sounds good then you buy it!”

But Jun just shook the black fringe from his playful gaze, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Tangy zangys are the bottom tier of gummy candy. No way.”

“So shut up then.” The words were harsh, yet your smile was no more menacing than a butterfly.

Since it would be impossible for Jun to leave the store without stocking his snack collection, you shopped for longer than expected, filling a basket with spicy chips and hard candies and a few chocolate bars. Heading home down the nighttime street, beneath the moonlight, the infinite expanse of a blackness that felt like a cocoon, you had already ripped open your strawberry tangs while Jun tore the corner off a tiny pouch of bubblegum poprocks.

They crackled loudly on his tongue, in which he made sure to hover in close proximity to your ear, ensuring you could detect every small fizzle. Each time it warranted you to shove him away, muttering a cheap laugh about how it wasn’t required that he lean in so generously, though you couldn’t evade that one nervous thought ticking at the back of your head: you wanted to kiss him, wrap your palm around Jun’s neck and taste the electric bubblegum from his heart-shaped mouth.

“Aren’t you glad you came with me?” You asked, suckling the sugar off a red candy strip.

Jun swallowed his poprocks. “I guess you can word it like that.”

Standing at the living room fish tank, you opened the tab to the flake box and shook the food into the water, your pink guppy who you had so fittingly named, Princess Pebble, swimming toward the surface in order to nip at the flakes. Wonwoo observed you from his seat at the kitchen table, dragging his spoon through the remainder of his cereal, scooping out the last soggy pieces.

“I feel good about it,” Wonwoo hummed, referring to the history test he wrote yesterday, “I think I might’ve left out some information on the essay question.”

You closed the fish flakes and returned to the table, where you left your cup of tea.

“Eh, who cares,” you mumbled behind the rim, “you’re gonna get like a ninety-five anyways.”

The boy shrugged, pressing a fingertip to his glasses, moving them higher up his nose. He had always been diligent with his studying, though he often left the apartment to write notes at the library or a classmate’s dorm. It was difficult to accomplish much when Junhui would distract him, and rather than reading his textbook, Wonwoo would always end up playing computer games with the latter.

“Did you hear Jun come home last night?” You asked, gulping the rest of your tea.

Wonwoo set his bowl into the sink and filled it with water, smiling. It irked you somehow. You were only curious about whether or not he heard Jun return from his dance practice.

Joining him at the sink to clean your mug, you bumped his elbow. “What’s so cute over here?”

“Nothing,” he hummed dismissively, “I heard him crawl into bed, that’s pretty much it.”

“And that’s funny or something?”

“You ask about him quite frequently.” Wonwoo turned to you with a suspecting glance, one that made you subtly desire to dump a cup of water over his head. “You know that, right?”

The morning air was cool, yet your face felt immensely heated, almost prickling.

“I ask because we’re fri—”

“Friends. Yeah, yeah.” Wonwoo huffed, the omniscient smile creeping back toward his mouth, to which you could do nothing apart from gawk at your roommate despite his reiteration of a musing that wasn’t at all unfamiliar. “I’ve always loved you for your innate sense of comedy. It’s priceless.”

It’s what everyone assumed anyways. You and Jun fought tooth and nail to articulate your friendship, to paint with the colours that would lead everyone to believe it was true. Most often your explanations worked, yet there remained some who were particularly stubborn. Wonwoo was an evident case. But he was too close, too eagle-eyed, and he saw that you and Jun behaved in a manner completely beyond friendship. Despite the likewise feelings, something unbeknownst kept you apart.

“I know exactly what that means, idiot!” Echoed your shout as Wonwoo disappeared down the corridor, hoping to take refuge in his bedroom.

“I’m glad!” The depth of his voice reverberated into the kitchen, and you heard his door quickly shut.

No less than a few seconds later did Junhui reveal himself from around the corner, clean and freshened up after a steamy shower, one he desperately needed upon immediately passing out, sweat-soaked and exhausted in his bed the night before. Soonyoung definitely hadn’t taught their lesson with any degree of ease. Pretending you weren’t just quipping at Wonwoo, you smiled.

“Were you two fighting?” Jun asked, pulling out a frying pan from the cupboard. He usually whipped together an omelette for breakfast.

“No, not at all. We never fight, remember?”

Jun scoffed while opening the fridge, removing an egg carton and a plastic wrapping filled with vegetables. Still hungry, you started peeling open a tangerine from the fruit basket and stood next to him as he organized the produce onto a cutting board. Ever so faintly, you could smell the crisp scent to his aftershave. It was peculiar how a bit of foam could render your chest that cottony.

“In fact, when’s the last time you even remember an argument Wonwoo and I had?” You prodded.

“Two days ago,” Jun laughed, “when Wonwoo wanted to watch that exploration documentary on King Tut, but you changed the channel so you could finish the last season of Home Makeover.”

Pressing his rose lips together, Junhui casted you an innocent glance. “So there’s that.”

Separating a small slice of tangerine, you gently pushed the clove into the boy’s mouth. He smiled softly as he began to chew. With the gentle tang of citrus in the air, you set a hand on Jun’s shoulder and buried your face against his warm neck, whispering, “yeah, and it was definitely worth it.”

Quite frankly, neither you, Jun, Wonwoo, or Joshua were fairing optimally at the library. While Wonwoo sat on the opposite side of the table helping Joshua organize his economics presentation, you were neglecting your biology packet, instead choosing to sketch a tiny Princess Pebble in the paper’s upper corner. Jun had been tasked with reviewing his latest theatre script, yet he hadn’t even flicked through it. He was intrigued by one of the numerous mangas he’d saved to his phone.

“Take the last point off here,” Wonwoo said, peering over Joshua’s shoulder at his laptop, “there’s too much text, and this isn’t a major branch of your topic anyways.”

Joshua sighed as he made a few clicks on his keyboard. “Dude, I don’t think I can edit another word. This class is so boring.”

“Mr. Canning is just a boring professor,” Wonwoo sympathized, “it would be best if it were someone who weren’t so… dry. I guess is the right word.”

Slumping back in his chair, Joshua huffed, “he’s like a human chalk stick.”

Desperate to discuss something that wasn’t related to his lacklustre econ class, Joshua spared a glance at Jun’s unopened script. “Shouldn’t you be learning that?” He asked.

Jun didn’t look away from the phone in his lap. “I can’t do it here.”

“That means he’s going to open it for the first time at one in the morning, the day of his performance.” You chuckled, outlining the sketch of your guppy using Wonwoo’s pink gel pen.

Harshly, Jun’s hand smacked your knee under the table and you couldn’t help but laugh, garnering an over-the-shoulder glare from a student in the corner who’d been trying to focus on their colossal textbook. Wonwoo smiled at them apologetically while Joshua feigned as though he were typing something on his laptop. However, Jun’s hand didn’t leave your knee, and your laughter became an immediate drought, to which the sole thing you could feel was his palm creeping higher up your leg.

Attempting to be subtle, you turned your head slightly and looked at the boy with a bit of a warning expression, though Jun simply continued to scroll through his manga.

“I’m going to check the world history section,” Wonwoo announced, rising from the table, “anyone want to come with?”

Joshua pushed out his chair. “I’ll come just so I don’t have to stare at this shitty powerpoint.”

As soon as the boys walked beyond earshot, you pinched the edge of Jun’s ear. He finally tossed his phone onto the table, though he didn’t exactly appear compassionate, rather he was smirking, for he knew if you truly didn’t want his hand touching your leg then you would have bumped it away.

“You can’t do that.” Nonetheless, there surmounted a need to establish some insignificant boundary, one that neither of you were going to follow through. “Not when they’re so close.”

“But they didn’t see.” Jun replied, squeezing your inner thigh. “It shouldn’t matter.”

“It does. What if Joshua saw?” At that point, Wonwoo was fairly conditioned to your lingering fingertips, grazes and stares. He usually pretended not to notice them. However, Joshua was a risk.

Jun shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t you worry too much? I always touch your leg.”

That was the problem. People trying to convince other people that their relationship was wholly platonic didn’t linger in such an intimate way. They didn’t creep fingertips up the other’s inner thigh beneath a tablecloth, or possess a gaze that traced the other’s lips like a delectable piece of candy when they spoke. There shouldn’t be any whispers pressed quickly against the other’s ear when no one else was looking, or the dire urge to climb into the other’s lap when their legs were wide open.

Both of you were afraid. Neither of you wanted to break the question that would thrust your relationship into the light. You kept waiting for the right time, but it always seemed one step ahead.

The movie theatre was nearly empty as the longwinded credit screen continued rolling, the last few congregations throwing their soda cups and empty packages into the garbage on their way out. Still, the floor of practically every row had been scattered with butter popcorn or melted m&m’s, shiny chocolate wrappers left crinkled in the recliners like the employees were supposed to take them home as gifts. Wonwoo put his hands on the back of his head, examining the disastrous rows.

You sensed he was feeling rather lucky about not being scheduled that night. Jun forced himself from the recliner and picked up his cup of fruit punch, jammed with way too many ice cubes.

If no one else was going to comment, you might as well. “That wasn’t the worst.”

“Agreed.” Wonwoo said, pushing up his glasses. “The murderer’s ploy was difficult to follow at times. I started getting confused when he left his car in the woods.”

“What?” Jun gawked. “That’s when you got confused? I didn’t even know what was happening after the first half hour.” His eyes gleamed in astonishment.

“Same.” You admitted. “I guess you’ll have to explain in the car.”

Reaching into the cupholder, you pulled out the package of strawberry tangs with nothing but a tiny amount of the powder-like sugar left inside.

“Thank you for picking up your trash,” Wonwoo sighed, taking the lead down the stairway while the credit music still played, “I’d hate to be working tonight.”

The wide corridor was completely vacant by the time you exited the theatre. Ever so slightly you could hear the galactic sound effects from the arcade machines. That buttery scent of popcorn seemed to waft no matter where you stood in the cinema. Wonwoo announced that he was going to check the concession counter to see who was on cash, but assured he would meet you and Jun at the back exit. Jun hurriedly downed his fruit punch in a large gulp before you emerged into the night.

You were confined to the small overhang by the doorway, for a hard rain was pelting against the concrete and turned the night air considerably cooler. Not one of you had checked the forecast beforehand, and you would undoubtedly get drenched straight through to the flesh in your thin long-sleeve.

“How are we going to make it to the car?” You groaned.

Pulling up his hood, Jun only laughed. “Now is a good time to be able to teleport.” He then stuck out his hand for a moment, the raindrops hitting his palm.

“Does it feel like bullets?”

“No. It feels kind of nice actually.” He remarked.

Curious, you rolled up your sleeve and extended your arm into the downpour. Jun was right, it felt satisfactory as each of the brisk droplets splashed your skin. However, you prematurely discovered the rain wasn’t so appealing when Jun suddenly shoved you from beneath the overhang.

“Hey— what the hell?!” You squealed upon the immediate repercussions, the cold water already leaking through your top while Junhui slapped his thigh, cackling.

Wanting to erase that luminous grin of his, you attempted wrestling the lanky boy into the weather, but no more than a few harmless drops skimmed his shoulder. Yet, with another brute shove, Jun stumbled, feeling the silver needles of rain pour down from the night sky and swirl at his dampening sneakers. He was laughing as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you hard against his chest before you were even cognisant that an immense wetness was soaking through your every article.

You wished it had been indignance drumming in your heart rather than affection, because it was taking every single fibre of your being not to kiss him. As the droplets beaded down his skin, he was like a springtime flower caught in the morning dew, and when he carded back the wet, black hairs plastered to his forehead, you thought it was possible to fall into him and never feel that concrete scrape your knees. Gently, his hand touched the small of your wet back, his breaths deepening.

He urged you in tighter as his tongue ran along his bottom lip, tasting the rain.

You were shivering, frigid, though your blood was far too warm to let yourself take note. Instead, you moved your head closer, closer, Jun’s cold palm cupping your cheek and your eyes fluttering shut and your soft mouths just brushing together— until Wonwoo appeared from inside.

Instantly, you two pushed away from each other. With his eyes widening, Wonwoo stuttered.

“I-I’m… I’m going to pretend as best I can that something weird didn’t almost happen.” He stated, swallowing thickly. “Just… Why did you two have to get soaked? You’re sitting in my car, y’know!”

At last, you felt that icy shiver trickle down your spine.

“S-Sorry.” You hummed, teeth chattering.

“I guess it’s fine,” Wonwoo sighed, “I have some towels under the passenger’s seat.”

Not long after returning to the apartment, Wonwoo gathered his laptop and slipped into his pyjamas. He proceeded to flop onto the couch to edit his research paper, though it didn’t take much for his eyelids to start weighing down, his dense paragraphs blurring together on the screen. More often than not you would take advantage of Wonwoo’s midnight crashes in the living room.

After exchanging your damp, terribly cold clothes for a warm t-shirt and sweatpants, you found yourself cozied beneath Jun’s comforter for the umpteenth night. The boy’s head rested against the crook of your neck, where his slow breaths were cool to your skin, though they occasionally became heavier when your fingertips stroked at his smooth hair. He was much like a kitten who loved a thorough scratch behind the ears. You swore that he purred whenever you rubbed the right spot.

Holding out his phone, he’d been finishing an episode of his drama before bed. You tucked some of the black locks behind his ear, noting how much it’d grown over the months. Then your gaze wandered over every detail that shaped his face, as though he were a textured oil painting.

His eyes were always glimmering, seemingly innocent and curious, yet you knew just how much that earthly shade could darken when he fell into his professions. When Jun acted on stage, his gaze lost its untainted nature. It moulded into the role of the sinister characters he preferred playing. When he danced in blazing lights, those eyes were sharp enough to consume, to cut, almost like a razorblade.

But then you studied his lips, his heart-shaped cupid’s bow, the small constellation of moles that dotted his skin like kisses from past soulmates. You thought back to the mist and the rain, his hand resting against the small of your back, how close you were to tasting the flavourful, fruity mix of his drink. In fact, you wondered why you didn’t just kiss Junhui whenever you wanted. What was stopping you, in that moment, from turning his head toward you so that your lips could press to his?

Suddenly, the boy laughed at his phone screen, to which you felt the brassy reverberation erupt in his chest, his eyes glinting and his mouth stretched into a box-like smile. You pulled a few strands of hair from his forehead as he seemed to be glowing, his cheeks rosy.

Jun mewled in surprise when your fingers threaded rather tight through his black locks, feeling you tilt his head up until his gaze was burning into yours.

You didn’t hesitate. Leaning forward, you kissed him sweet and slow.

Jun’s eyes fluttered as the pressure warmed his mouth, a small whine getting caught in his throat upon the gentle sting of your hand tugging at his tresses, his scalp tingling. His phone sunk into the bedsheets, and instead he was gripping your t-shirt, moving his head with yours as the kiss deepened. He tasted like mint, and his small whines were silky.

How on earth could you have ever shied from kissing him when it felt so relieving? Nothing else held any significance to you apart from making his pretty lips shine.

However, you needed to catch your breath. Releasing the firm grasp on his hair, you detached your mouth from his, your chest rising and falling in great lengths. The boy’s eyes couldn’t be more glazed, his lips shimmering, flushed garnet and slightly swollen. Neither of you uttered a word. The blankets fell from Jun’s shoulders as he straddled your waist eagerly. Again, his mouth slotted with yours, and your hands slid up his caramel thighs, imprinting his flesh with the curve of your fingernails.

If you kept quiet enough, then perhaps Wonwoo would remain asleep until morning.

Standing amongst the crowd in the cramped performance hall, it was inevitable that you would get bumped around like a tiny, flying pinball. After rutting into Wonwoo’s shoulder for the third time, he seemed dauntingly close to losing his indolence and snapping, though he realized it wasn’t your fault that others were pushing toward the front of the stage and bit his tongue.  

It became tradition for Soonyoung and his students to rent the downtown performance hall and host a fundraiser. The event typically lasted a few hours, with a few short interludes where the dancers would retreat backstage to catch their breath. Being Jun’s roommate, you and Wonwoo were always granted access into the small dressing room, and though you never admitted it, you loved experiencing that small flash of pride whenever the moonstruck audience watched you slip away.

The next interlude was closing in. Despite the different dancers on stage, you really, truthfully, only watched Jun. Each time he captured the centre position, you couldn’t help but cup your hands around your mouth, being one of the first to cheer overtop the deafening music as he moved so fluidly, with poise. He was a completely different person when he performed. Somehow, his tender-hearted nature would peel back and he’d emerge a domineering beacon.

As soon as the stage ended, an uproar rippled from the audience and resonated deep in your ears, to which you couldn’t help but slightly bury your head against Wonwoo’s shoulder to muffle the cacophony. Nonetheless, you were clapping, smiling, staring fondly as Jun grabbed his collar and fluffed it out, welcoming a slight gust of humid air. His skin was dewy with sweat, and yet he glowed beautifully, even when he was breathing so heavily through his nose.

Soonyoung was speaking into his microphone, but you missed half his speech, and before you knew it you were being dragged by Wonwoo through the crowd toward the backstage entrance. The room was at least big enough to accommodate the dancers. Jun was in the corner, gulping down his water.

“Only three more songs,” Wonwoo smiled, “you guys really stepped the level up this year.”

It took a moment before Jun replied, the column of his neck glittering as he completely crushed the plastic bottle in his hands.

“Yeah,” he burst out, “I’m freaking dying.”

“It’s for a good cause at least.” Wonwoo reasoned, ignoring how you stepped on his foot.

After Jun rolled his eyes, he was staring at you.

The air grew much too thick, and you had to clear your throat. “S-Seriously, you’ve improved so much. I can’t believe it.”

“Thanks,” Jun replied, scratching his nape, “it’s nothing special, really.”

“Uh? Nothing special?” Wonwoo quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t Soonyoung say you’re one of the best in the class?”

When Jun innocently flitted his gaze toward a distant spot and pressed his lips together, Wonwoo merely huffed, announcing he was going to the lobby for a drink of water. You watched him wind between the busy dancers, either wiping down their sweat or fanning themselves, until he disappeared out the door. When you faced Jun again, you looped your fingers through the satin collar of his stage outfit and kissed him quickly, knowing everyone was too occupied to take note.

He squeaked, “what happened to being careful?”

“This is your fault.” You eagerly pinned it on him. “Try being less hot.”

“That’s horrible advice. And also not possible. Which makes it worse than horrible.”

You weren’t sure whether or not you wanted to feel his mouth again or whack the side of his head with his deflated water bottle. Opting for latter, you stole another kiss, though you tensed in surprise when Jun wrapped his arm around your waist to secure your body firm against his. Hastily, you pushed at his toned stomach, your heart drilling manically as you looked over your shoulder toward the dancers. It didn’t appear as though anyone had seen and you breathed out in relief.

Suddenly, Soonyoung poked his head through the doorway.

“Ten minutes!” He shouted before disappearing.

Jun was staring at you with the most ingenious twinkle.

“That was your fault.” He purred, tapping your thigh with his water bottle. “Try being less hot.”

You did feel a small sliver of guilt. After all, Wonwoo had been waiting back at the apartment for approximately an hour, twiddling his thumbs, wondering why you and Jun required so much goddamn time just to buy some hot fudge sundaes. The molten taste of the chocolate, the vanilla ice cream, cold and sweet, was completely stolen from your lips by the boy whose lap you were occupying. Wonwoo’s sundae sat on the dashboard, dripping slowly beneath the evening sunlight.

And yet, that infinitesimal sliver was plucked straight out when Jun latched onto a sensitive patch of your neck, softly digging in his teeth and swirling his tongue. Your fingers sheathed through the black hair and pulled up at the roots, knowing how much pleasure he took from the dull sting. Button by button, Jun started to simultaneously open your shirt, to which you questioned if this was really happening, if you were really going to sort of out the complications of intercourse in his car.

The device abandoned in the passenger’s seat buzzed. You already knew the name to the text. As Jun kissed his way down to your collarbone, licking and suckling, you reached for your phone, feeling it buzz again with another impatient text. The guilt from earlier began to resurface.

[ wonwoo | 7:49pm ] This is suspicious now. WHERE ARE YOU? >:(

[ wonwoo | 7:49pm ] Actually screw that. WHERE IS MY HOT FUDGE SUNDAE?

The screen blipped with yet another message.

[ wonwoo | 7:49pm ] I know you’re reading these… Answer me or I won’t feed Princess Pebble!!

“J-Jun,” you piped up, hearing his low, husky mumble while he continued to mark your collarbone, “I think we need to go home now.”

The boy splayed a few more open-mouthed kisses against the skin before peeking up at you, his eyes wide and glimmering, lips flushed a deep magenta. With half the buttons of your shirt hanging open and your heart blazing, you had to snip the venereal longing in its bud.

“What’s wrong?” Jun hummed, pushing his fingers through the loops on your jeans. “Who’s texting?”

“Wonwoo. He’s been waiting for almost an hour, and his sundae is gonna be a puddle at this rate.”

He blinked a bit cluelessly, though still in musing. “There’s no way to be quick about this, is there?”

Rebuttoning your shirt, you shook your head and laughed. “Let’s wait before we ruin the car. I’m sure there’ll be a better time in the future.”

Jun nodded in agreement and relaxed back into the seat, a ray of sunshine that bled golden slanting through the windshield. Somehow, Wonwoo’s sundae wasn’t a complete pool sitting in the plastic cup, but that didn’t negate the fact he was still going to start his theory on responsibility and trust the moment you stepped onto the welcome mat. As you finished clasping the last buttons, something had caught Jun’s eye out the window, for he immediately panicked and tightly gripped your waist.

“Oh my god, g-get off my lap,” he grunted, to which your head bumped against the ceiling during the hurried shuffle and your knee whacked the gearstick.

“Ow! Okay, I’m going! Jeez, could you not give me a warning?”

“No,” Jun remarked, looking quickly to the rear-view mirror to straighten out his hair, “it’s Jeonghan and Soonyoung. They just came out of the store.”

When you glanced out Jun’s window, you noted the duo making their way across the parking lot, some plastic bags filled with groceries hanging from Jeonghan’s hand while Soonyoung appeared to be texting someone. To both your dismay, Soonyoung immediately recognized Jun’s car. You watched as the blonde bumped Jeonghan’s shoulder, how they took a slight detour on their way over.

“We have to talk to them?” You whined. “Are you kidding? Lock your window.”

Jun’s brow pinched together. “How is that going to help? They already saw us so just relax.”

“You’re telling me to relax? You practically threw me off your la—”

“Shht,” Jun snapped as the two boys drew nearer, “just shhhhht okay?” And with an incredibly large gulp, he plastered a happy-go-lucky smile to his mouth and let the window slide open.

“Jun?” Soonyoung called, leaning down slightly to peer inside the vehicle. “What’re you doing out here, huh? Back from shoplifting?”

Jeonghan bent down too, grinning snidely. “You looked a little frazzled or something.”

“Me?” Jun pointed at himself. “No, I’m fine. Just – we have to leave. Wonwoo is waiting.”

“Wonwoo?” Jeonghan seemed excited. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Hey, tell him I’m still appreciative for writing my World History paper on the Persian Empire.”

You knew it was best to stay quiet, but you couldn’t help your slight choke. Wonwoo had come home one day saying that one of his classmates offered him seventy-five bucks if he’d write their history paper. He wasn’t going to oblige originally, but cracked after listening to his classmate type out their introduction in the library, that it was just so bad Wonwoo felt piteous and decided to pitch in.

Gaping at Jeonghan, you exclaimed, “that was you?”

“Yeah. I mean, I still dropped that class. And Wonwoo definitely thinks I’m a dumbass. But I didn’t have to do a spot of work, and now I’m getting smooth nineties in English. You just have to make up some shit and do a couple fancy indents and you’re set.”

Jeonghan paused, then leaned in a little further to look you up and down. “Y’know, I’ve never seen you before. How easily do you give out your numbe—”

“We really have to go,” Jun interrupted, already clicking the button to roll up the window, “see you at practice, Soonyoung. Bye Jeonghan!”

The two boys didn’t really have any other option apart from stepping back, allowing Jun to exit the parking space and turn onto the road. Not that it would help much, you turned on the air conditioning until it felt like the wind was pure ice, hoping that you’d be able to preserve Wonwoo’s melting fudge sundae. You made sure to text him on your whereabouts, that you were heading home, and churned up a white lie about how you ran into Jun’s friends who held a persistent conversation.

It wasn’t entirely false. And yet, Wonwoo still managed to see through it.

[ wonwoo | 7:54 pm ]: Just say you were making out.

[ wonwoo | 7:54 pm ]: Btw, I fed Princess Pebble.

[ wonwoo | 7:54 pm ]: I’m not a sinner. Unlike you guys.

Later that evening, after delivering Wonwoo his melted cup of chocolate ice cream, after Jun quickly threw some extra clothes into his backpack and ran to his late-night dance practice, you were standing at the fish tank with some new plants you bought for your guppy. As the bright lights of the tank reflected across your face, there was a strange feeling inside you. It seemed like turbulence, confusion, your heart experiencing one sentiment but your brain thinking another.

You hadn’t realized you were absently standing there until Wonwoo came into the dark living room, holding a crumpled tube of toothpaste and his toothbrush. Watching the pink fish swim in between her new seaweed arrangement, he asked you if there was an extra tube stored in your bedroom.

“Don’t think so. Text Jun and ask him to stop at the store when his practice ends.”

“I’ll do that…” Wonwoo sighed. “Hey, you know I already fed Princess Pebble?”

He accompanied you at the tank. For some reason, you refused to look at Wonwoo. You felt unusually vulnerable, like a fragile shell that could be cracked open even by the gentlest hands, and the more you thought into your emotions, the harder your heart started pounding.

“I-I know,” you smiled weakly, “but I got her some new plants today. I just put them in.”

Wonwoo could always tell when something was off-kilter. You almost hated how sharp his senses were, that he was able to detect with such accuracy how you were being eaten up inside. Softly, he touched your shoulder, urged you to turn toward him so he could see the honest colour in your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He frowned, pushing up the bridge of his glasses.

You felt terrified, but there was no sense in pretending.

“How do I tell Jun that I’m in love with him? That I don’t want us to be a secret anymore?”

It was a weighted question, and you knew that. But it was also the truth. As much as it could be invigorating to maintain a secret relationship, you were beginning to feel the brittle side effects that came with keeping such love behind closed doors. You didn’t want Jun to push you from his lap just because his friends might’ve seen you, nor did you want to keep an eye out for whether or not you should knock his hand off your thigh in public. The secrecy had been fun, but it wasn’t enough.

Scratching the blue collar of his shirt, Wonwoo appeared uncertain.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I just think you shouldn’t repress this. You need to be upfront.”

“How?” It sounded like a desperate plead. “I don’t know how, Wonwoo.”

“Stop overthinking it,” the boy advised, grabbing onto your shoulders and giving your frame a small, grounding shake, “you know Jun. You know he isn’t a rash person. You know if you tell him he’ll hear every word of it. It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re all he thinks about.”

Wonwoo  brushed at the side of your cheek with his thumb. “Don’t hurt yourself like this, okay? The next time you’re alone, just say how you feel. I promise it won’t be as bad as you’re hypothesizing.”

You inhaled a deep breath and nodded. Overthinking was a poison to you. It shouldn’t be that difficult to be honest, especially when you knew how attentive Jun was, the manner in which he always adapted himself to be of a comforting presence.

“Okay,” you attempted to draw together some confidence, “I’ll do that.”

“Good.” The boy grinned, still fiddling with his empty tube of toothpaste. “It really doesn’t bother me that you guys run around together. Just… please… never do anything weird in my bed.”

The next time you were alone with Jun, it was all but a desirable circumstance. Once you came home from work and heated up some leftover dinner in the microwave, you decided to feed Princess Pebble, though your jaw unhinged as you noticed something a little unorthodox about her tank: a pink blotch floating against the surface of the water. Immediately, the tears welted hot and stinging against your eyes. You had to use the small net to scoop your guppy out from the water.

Remarkably, Princess Pebble had lived a long life for a fish. You remembered walking with Jun to the pet store one summer afternoon, after you two finished your last day of eleventh grade and had just escaped a brutal chemistry exam. Rather than studying beforehand, you spent ample time researching different types of fish, and would often send Jun pictures asking him to choose which one he thought was cutest. Yet, at the end of it all, you chose a guppy with the prettiest pink scales.

“Don’t most people want a puppy? A kitten? And you choose a boring fish.”

Jun had teased, sounding awkward and a bit lisped through his braces.

Somehow, Princess Pebble had managed to live a five-year lifespan. Wonwoo told you most guppies live for two years, three years if the owner takes good care. Sitting at the kitchen table, you placed her body onto a piece of paper towel, the thick tears dripping down your cheeks while your sinuses grew wet and congested. You didn’t know if it was petulant to be your age, crying over a pet fish. In fact, you didn’t even possess the heart to rise from the table and discard her body.

It wasn’t much longer until Jun returned home after his theatre class, to which you heard his key rattling in the lock. Wonwoo was scheduled for a shift at the cinema, most likely handing out overpriced popcorn and chocolate and having to reject every person who asked for his number.

“Hey,” he called, shouldering off his backpack, “Wonwoo texted me. That weird thriller we were looking at is playing next week. We should—,”

Jun paused the moment he heard your runny sniffling. He didn’t realize that your fish was sitting on the paper towel until he took a few steps closer. You felt embarrassed Jun had to see you like this. If you were crying, it had always been over something with a little more gravity, like the time you were distraught about flunking your laboratory practical, and Wonwoo couldn’t persuade you to open your bedroom door no matter how frequently he stood outside, pleading.

Plucking at the collar of your shirt, you used the fabric to clear away the tears. Without a word, Jun grabbed another chair from the dining table and pulled it next to you, scooting in close. As soon as you felt his arm drape around your shoulders, it was like someone had pulled the plug on a bathtub filled with water, to which you pressed your face against his neck and sobbed harder.

“I’m so sorry.” Jun whispered, hugging you tight to his comfortable chest. “It’s okay to be upset. I know how much she meant to you.”

He drew soothing strokes down the back of your head, and he sat with you until those wet pearls ran dry with salt. You knew it wasn’t wise to keep her body out in the air, that you would have to discard her somehow, yet the thought of having to flush her away seemed too cruel. Jun wiped the soft glisten from your cheeks with his sleeve, his fingers then tracing up and down the side of your face.

“I-I don’t want to flush her.” You blubbered.

The boy shook his head. “We won’t do that. We’ll find a good way to handle it.” His thumb brushed tenderly below the fragile skin of your eye for a moment, and he seemed to be in musing.

“Wait here.” He announced, suddenly running into his bedroom.

You could hear Jun shuffling through his closet, moving around clothing hangers and pushing aside boxes still filled with some of his old belongings from homelife in Shenzhen. When he remerged into the living room, he was holding a particular tissue box, one that you hadn’t seen since twelfth grade biology. You, Jun, and Wonwoo had painted and decorated the box as part of an optional project, to see if you could grow any plants from the packets of radish and tomato seeds your teacher had.

Nothing ever grew. Wonwoo claimed there had been some green sprouts when it was his turn to look after the makeshift garden, but that his cat snuck into his room and ate them all. Jun always kept a multitude of random things that dated back to your adolescence. As awkward and bumpy as those times were, seeing the tissue box reminded you that there had been precious moments too.

“Why do you still have that?” You laughed, even if your chest was aching.

“Because that was the first time us three did something together.” Jun said, returning to his seat beside you. “It was one of the first memories I made after moving away from home.”

You fondly looked at Jun while pulling the tissue box toward you, slathered in old, chipping acrylic paint and obnoxious, starry glitter.

Licking the dry salt off your lips, you smiled. “Princess Pebble would love this.”

“It can be her shrine. When Wonwoo comes home, we can find a good place to bury it.” Jun explained. “I know I called her boring five years ago, but I didn’t mean it. I loved her too.”

In the pensive silence, you thought back to your conversation with Wonwoo, recalling his firm grip on your shoulders as he reiterated the importance of freeing your heart, of not bogging yourself down with too many untold truths. Then, you glanced at Jun. You thought about that fluttering feeling when you kissed him, when you ran your fingers through his hair, listening to his deep-chested laughter whenever he gleefully buckled over into your lap after telling one of his hit-or-miss jokes.

The boy tensed slightly as you pulled him into a hug, though he quickly came to ease and warmth. You thanked him, because it just felt like the right thing to do for his compassion.

And then you told him something else.

“I love you.”

Without missing a heartbeat, he murmured against your hair, “I love you too.”

It was late, unreasonably late, the past-midnight late where the entire world falls still like an unperturbed pond. Downtown was completely hushed. Every so often the wind picked up, though it inevitably withered away in between the buildings and emerged a pitiful whistle onto the street. And yet, despite the fact you should be tucked in bed while the moon protected the silence in her silver hands, you were pushing outside the convenience shop with Jun close behind.

He took the end of a straw into his mouth and slurped at the sweet, cherry-flavoured slushie that was beginning to empty. Immediately, he crinkled his forehead and his face contorted.

“How many times have I said not to do that?” You laughed as he passed you the slippery cup.

“I don’t know. Three?” Jun replied with a grimace. “I can really feel it. Wait, I need a moment.”

You stopped next to the traffic post at the end of the street. Jun grabbed at his hair and squeezed like it was some miraculous remedy for curing a brain freeze. Directing the straw into your mouth, you sucked up the cherry syrup and crushed ice until you felt the distant ache thrum inside your head.

“Okay…” Jun concluded, brushing the long, black fringe from his eyes, “I’m good now.”

Thrusting the drink back into his hands, you couldn’t help but huff: “you’re such a baby.”

As though to prove your point, Jun started whining. “My head is so, so cold. It’s freezing.”

“So put this up or something.” You teased, reaching around the back of his neck to pull the boy’s hood over his head. Giggling slightly, you grinned at him as he shot you a questionable glance.

The streets remained quiet, and the sky was remarkably clear, no more than a few ragged and thin clouds drifting over the stars. The last time you had been on this corner, you were licking the strawberry sugar off your fingertips while Jun crumpled his last packet of popping candy. You remembered tracing the rose tint that warmed his lips, each fibre in your muscle twitching because you just wanted to wrap a hand through his locks and kiss him like he was your last breath.

You didn’t understand how you could love one person so much. Why love often fused itself into your bloodstream more than functionality. Your heart knew how to beat, yet it stumbled whenever you gazed at him. Your lungs knew how to filter the air, yet they closed up whenever you caught his eye. Your tongue knew how to articulate, yet it tied itself in a knot the moment he’d touch you.

“Hey,” you mumbled, patting his arm, “can I ask you something?”

Jun looked away from the stars, sipping at his drink again. He nodded.

The moon probably wanted to crush your heart in her hands for how loudly it was thumping.

“What if I told you that I want people to know we’re together? What would you say?”

Despite your anxiousness, you weren’t as afraid as you anticipated. Maybe it was because Jun didn’t immediately sour or attempt to disparage your sentiments. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he blinked at you, but it didn’t matter. When it was most important, Jun picked his words carefully.

“I’d tell you that I want the same thing,” he admitted, his tone deepening and the amber in his cheeks sparked with pink, “that I want people to know how I feel about you… That I’ve always been in love with you.”

You smiled wide, like a kid who just got their braces off. Unable to contain such a rapturous energy, you stepped in close to Jun and held onto his shoulders, dotting the corners of his mouth with small kisses before you pressed your lips against his. You felt him smirk, though it seemed too devious. Jun had suddenly wrapped his arms around your lower back, pushing you in chest-to-chest. You melted as he kissed you, your fingertips ghosting along the soft hairs at his nape, the moonlight on your skin.

When you arrived back at the apartment, you could hear a few of Wonwoo’s gentle snores echo from behind the bedroom door. Just before you slipped away into your own room, Jun left a goodnight kiss to the top of your head, his hand thoughtfully squeezing your hip.

“I-Isn’t it a little late for that?” Jun stumbled through his laughter. “Why do you need me?”

It was a surface-level question really, but nonetheless, your heart still skipped a beat. In only a second or more the silence was bearing down too heavily and it felt like your heart was a book with all its pages out. Jun’s eyes were twinkling as he blinked up at you.

You finally knew what you should have said.

“Because I love you.”

✧✎ a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SWEET PRINCE!! never would i have imagined that someone who’s on the opposite side of the globe could mean so much to me ;_; mr. moon has been such a healing presence, and it’s bc of him that i have found so much happiness these past five years! whenever i see him smiling and laughing and have good ol times just being himself, all my worrisome thoughts somehow fade away and i feel only joy!! 

anyways, i don’t want to ramble for too long (i could really fill a page with my cloying sentiments r.i.p) but i hope this was a wholesome fic!! the stars aligned and for once i was able to write a fic for a member’s birthday :_) 

#svt fanfic #jun scenarios #seventeen scenarios #jun fic #seventeen fics #seventeen imagines #jun imagine #jun x reader #svt x reader #wen junhui #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #junhui scenarios #jun fluff #junhui fic

[mutantenfisch]

TWC Fic - Return Home

I’ve finally finished the snippet I’ve been working on. It’s not much, but it’s a great feeling to feel inspired for not just art, but also writing. :D

If you want to take a look at my Detective, Marcus, you find his character sheet here. Enjoy!

„So, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry.” After Unit Bravo has settled all over my living-room, I head towards the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I also need a moment to breathe and Homer, who has been startled by the arrival of so many strangers at once, is already sitting on the kitchen counter, staring at me with his yellow eyes in an accusatory manner, demanding treats as compensation for being disturbed. I notice that his food bowl is still half full, and his water looks like it’s been changed earlier today as well. I notice a post-it on the fridge door that bears Tina’s handwriting. I pick it up to read it – “Hey Marcus! Your mother asked me to feed Homie and the fish while you’re at the seminar. Sorry for treating Homie a little too well… T.” Mum knows that I have pets and I silently thank her for sending Tina to look after them.

I wish I could say that unlike the cat I didn’t mind having guests over but in reality, it stresses me out more than I like to admit. Sure, Tina or Verda and his family sometimes pop in on the weekends, but well… that is something completely different. Also, they aren’t vampires and usually don’t stay to watch over my life because some other, crazy evil vampire is after me, or my blood specifically.

When I step through the macramé curtain that separates the kitchen from the rest of the flat, I take a deep breath and bring my focus back to the task at hand, emphasized by the light rumbling of my stomach. Hmm, I think I should have some pasta I think to myself and browse the shelve above the kitchen table, one hand pressed against my hip and with the other pointing at the various glass jars I use for storage. The flat is not very large, but it has a high ceiling, so most of my storage is along the walls and up. The downside is – I am rather short. But being prepared for this, I am just about to grab the step ladder I store underneath the table when the sound of the wooden beads woven into the strands of the curtain clacking against each other makes me turn my head.

“Need any help to reach something or are you bending over for me?” The growling voice was – of course – Mason’s, who had followed me into the kitchen.

“Yes actually,” I hope he doesn’t notice how the heat that was induced by his comment is creeping up my face. “Could you hand me the jar with the farfalle, please?”

When he raises an eyebrow in confusion, I quickly add “the noodles that are shaped like little butterflies.” I point at the corresponding jar on the shelf and quickly turn towards the stove to grab a pot and pan and keep my hands too busy to tremble.

A few minutes later, the farfalle are boiling in a pot while I’m frying some onions and garlic and chop a paprika to add some colour and vitamins to my dinner. Mason has been leaning in the corner between the door-frame and the fridge this whole time, watching me under lowered lids. I have gotten somewhat used to his presence now and just as I’m about to head over to the fridge to get some feta cheese out, I hear Felix from the living room.

“What are you cooking Marcus? Smells delicious!”

I pause in my steps to lean closer towards the door-frame so he can hear my reply better.

“Pasta with garlic – it’s a relief to know I won’t poison any of you guys with it.” I hear his and Nat’s amused chuckle and face the fridge, realising that with my movement I’ve come unexpectedly close to Mason.

“Just so you know, I can help you work off the calories you’re about to shovel into yourself later,” he mutters quietly enough that the others can impossibly hear it. His comment is accompanied by a smirk and a roll of his shoulders.

I inhale sharply and quickly look at an undetermined spot at the fridge door, heat creeping up my face again because I can feel his gaze lingering on me. I blink a few times, trying to decide whether this was one of his usual flirtations or a backhanded compliment. I know I’m not even half as athletic as any of you guys, but I’m comfortable in my body, I think to myself, feeling a sudden sting of anger mixed into my agitation.

“I, uh… I don’t see a point in that”, I manage to reply, continuing to avoid his stormy grey eyes that I feel are still lingering on me and travelling towards my middle. I inhale sharply and cross my arms over my chest, looking up at him with what I hope is at least a little bit angry.

“If the prospect of exercise pleases you so much”, I hope he doesn’t notice the sudden wave of even more heat that flushes my cheeks now that I’m directly looking into his eyes, “I can leave the car here and we walk to the station tomorrow morning. The weather is supposed to be good enough for this.”  

“There are many things that would please me a lot more than strolling through town with you, handsome, but following you around has its benefits.” His tone is so suggestive, I wonder how my body even managed to produce more heat in response to it, and I am already fumbling for words again, my gaze still locked with his, and I notice how the smile that follows his response makes his stormy grey eyes twinkle teasingly again.

“One of them is,” he continues and raises one hand to let it linger next to my cheek, “that we’ll surely find a moment where we’re alone in this cosy apartment of yours.” This new proposition, combined with the almost-touch of his surprisingly warm hand, makes my stomach flutter almost painfully and I swallow hard, staring at him wide-eyed for a moment before he frowns and pulls his hand away, glancing towards the direction of the living-room.

“Go get your noodles, Detective. I bet they taste horrible when they’re cold.” His tone is somewhere between amused and irritated and a smirk is again playing around the corners of his mouth.

I clear my throat and scratch my skin underneath the turtle-neck I’m wearing, trying to regain my composure.

“I, uh, I think you have a point. Yeah, I should better eat now.” I ramble, my thoughts racing around what had just happened. Now I remember that originally, I wanted to add some cheese, but with my nerves all over the place, and Mason still leaning in front of the fridge, I just pour the noodles into a bowl and throw the fried vegetables from the pan on top and head over to the living room.

By the time I sit down next to Nat on the couch underneath my loft bed, I’m glad my pulse has stopped racing and that the dimmed light in the living room hopefully helps conceal the red spots that are still lingering on my cheeks.

While I eat, I can’t help but notice how comfortable everyone seems. Well, as comfortable as someone like Ava could ever be, I notice with a smile – the agent has settled down on the windowsill of the bay window, still keeping both my door and the street below in her view but seeming more relaxed than when we arrived. Felix lay sprawled over the pillows in front of the couch, watching the aquarium on the outer wall with an amused smile pulling at his mouth and Nat is still sitting next to me, scratching Homer between his orange ears. After a few minutes, Mason joins us in the room as well, throwing himself into the chair at my desk across the room, watching us – or me? – under half-closed lids, his expression unreadable.

Yes, I think I could get used to having Unit Bravo around, I think as I shove another spoon full of my dinner into my mouth, and for the first time today, manage to relax as well.

#mutantenfisch writes #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #oc: marcus lewis #twc detective #agent m/detective #omg i actually finished this??? #behold - a written thing by me! #the first in several years!

[dinosaurtsukki]

across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. II)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

The next day, Bokuto found Akaashi in the kitchen, of all places, kneading what appeared to be a bread dough next to a distressed looking Kageyama. Bokuto paused for a while, standing by the kitchen door with his arms crossed and a smile on his face, as he watched the young master, who was probably forbidden from working in the kitchen, and the house butler, who was probably worried there were repercussions for allowing Akaashi to do what he was doing.

“Akaashi-san, please allow me to take over from here,” Kageyama pressed.

“Nonsense,” Akaashi chuckled. “I never knew bread-making was this fun. And the dough texture isn’t even near what you described.” Just then, Kageyama had discovered Bokuto was already there.

“Bokuto-san! Please tell Akaashi-san that I can handle preparing breakfast myself!” he demanded. Akaashi lifted his head slightly to greet him.

“Good morning, Bokuto-san. I hope I’ll be able to make you a good enough breakfast with my limited cooking skills.”

“I’ll be making breakfast!”

Bokuto chuckled and approached the wooden table where they were walking. “Kageyama’s right you know. You shouldn’t be the only one making breakfast.”

“Right,” Kageyama nodded. A look of slight annoyance crossed Akaashi’s features. Up close, Bokuto see that a corner of his cheek and a bit of his brow was streaked with flour.

“In fact, I should be helping Akaashi out!” Bokuto grinned cheekily at an even more flustered Kageyama. “Come on Kageyama. Sit this one out just this once. We won’t burn down anything. Promise.”

“And as owner of the estate, I demand that I get to cook breakfast in my own kitchen,” Akaashi backed him up.

“Alright, I guess I’ll sweep every inch of the manor,” Kageyama huffed.

“Nope, not even that,” Akaashi shook his head. “Don’t you have some kind of hobby?”

“Well… I,” Kageyama cleared his throat and looked away with a slight flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I can work on my embroidery.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi had finished kneading the dough and was now shaping it into a bowl on a wooden board. “I’ll scrounge up something to fry,” he said, heading into the larder. A moment later, he came up with some unsliced bacon and a basket of eggs.

“That should go well with the bread,” Akaashi remarked as he slid the unbaked dough into the oven before dusting off his floury hands on his apron. Seeing him without his usual jacket and scarf with the sleeves on his shirt rolled up had a certain charm that stopped Bokuto from looking away as much as he should.

“Would you like to do the frying?” he asked, plucking a knife from where the kitchen utensils were to slice the bacon into thick strips.

“You’ll have to show me how first,” Akaashi said. After slicing the bacon, Bokuto ignited the stove and instructed Akaashi to place a pan over it. As it turns out, Akaashi was a quick learner, even with Bokuto as a mediocre cook and instructor, and in a short while, all the bacon had been fried perfectly and all he had left to do was to crack eggs one by one into the pan.

“You’re not that bad of a cook yourself, Akaashi,” Bokuto commented. The two of them were standing next to each other by the stove, barely inches apart.

“If I’d have known I should have told my mother earlier,” Akaashi smiled wryly. “I feel guilty for saying this but I’m glad she isn’t around. I wouldn’t be here cooking bacon and eggs if she was.”

“Well, not be an instigator but…” Bokuto shot a sidelong glance at him. “Would you want to… do some things you wouldn’t be able to do?” Akaashi raised his eyebrows at him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t think I was already planning to do such things.”

After the bread finished baking and the eggs finished frying, they lay their breakfast out on the kitchen table and brought out plates and forks for everyone. Kageyama, who seemed to have finished a good amount of his embroidery and was no longer distressed, thanked them for the breakfast. Bokuto couldn’t help but watch Akaashi eat with his hands: picking up bacon with his fingers and mopping up egg yolk with bread. His master told him that hands were the hardest things to sketch so Bokuto spent an entire year on hands until sketching them became second-nature to him.

After finishing breakfast, Akaashi met Bokuto again in the dining room to continue the portrait. This time, Bokuto decided to paint more slowly, taking the opportunity to perfect mixing his colors. He hadn’t foreseen needing to paint a second portrait so he noticed that he was running low on oil. ‘I could ask Kageyama to buy some for me from the town nearby,’ he thought, before glancing up at Akaashi. ‘Unless…’

“What are you thinking about Bokuto-san?” Akaashi spoke up, as if reading Bokuto’s thoughts.

“I, uh…” Bokuto stammered. Akaashi cocked his head.

“You had that look on your face again,” he said.

“What look?”

“The one where you’re deep in thought and you raise your left hand to your chin,” Akaasi smirked as Bokuto realized that he was in fact holding that pose. “I do have an excellent view of how you work from here and while I’m not adept at painting, a lot of your habits have been noted down in my mind.”

“Most subjects wouldn’t even pay any mind to the painter,” Bokuto raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not just a painter,” Akaashi said simply. “Back to my question, what are you thinking about?”

“Well, since I didn’t prepare for painting two portraits during my stay here, I seem to have run out of oil,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his hair, no doubt leaving streaks of paint there, not that he particularly cared. “I was thinking about asking Kageyama to pick some up for me at the town tomorrow, but I’m also curious about the town here.”

“So am I, I’ve never been,” Akaashi said. Bokuto felt a smile play on his lips.

“Your tone suggests that you know exactly what I’m planning.”

“Kageyama would forbid it.”

“As if that’s going to stop you, Akaashi.”

“You know me well,” Akaashi chuckled. It sounded like music to Bokuto’s ears. “Are you always this chatty with the people you paint?”

“I do try to get into some casual conversation to put the model at ease,” Bokuto said, dipping his paintbrush in a lighter color to highlight the edges around the portrait. “And I can’t imagine how boring it must be for them to have to sit completely still for hours.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Akaashi cleared his throat. “Have you ever had to paint nude models?”

Bokuto chuckled. “Almost everyone asks that. And yes, I did. My master sent me to classes on nude painting with live models in front of us. Though, it’s not as erotic as most people think. At one point, while painting a woman, I found myself sobbing because it had been more than an hour and I couldn’t get the shadows right and I had run out of paint.” Akaashi laughed again.

“That certainly clears up a lot of mystery,” he said. “Although, I can’t imagine you a sobbing mess.”

“Oh, I was very moody growing up,” Bokuto grinned. “I’d easily feel down when I couldn’t do something right. And that was often.”

“How did you readjust your mindset?”

“Well, I took a step back to look at how far I’ve come. Once I remembered that years ago, I couldn’t even sketch an apple but had reached a point when I can paint one in less than 10 minutes, I knew I could do so much more with practice. And now, I’m here.”

“Now, you’re here,” Akaashi smiled. And Bokuto knew there wasn’t any place he’d rather be.

That night, they convinced Kageyama to let them go to town the next day and that Bokuto would know doubt watch over him and that they wouldn’t let Mikoto-san know. Kageyama agreed, and the next day, after breakfast that was once again cooked by Akaashi and Bokuto, the three of them headed out to town. Something about the day and occasion made Bokuto bring out his nicest shirt which was powder blue in color, with pristine, white buttons. Akaashi looked more casual in his appearance than usual dressed in suspenders and a light, cotton shirt that he had left unbuttoned from his chin to the top part of his chest.

The town near the estate was quite different from the ones Bokuto visited in the city. For one, it was much cleaner, less-populated, and less noisy. Most of the houses and buildings were low, at most three floors in height, and the pathways around town were in cobblestone. The townspeople however, were busy and hard at work preparing for what seemed to be a summer festival. ‘It is the first of May,’ Bokuto remembered and paused during their walk to watch a group of men erect a tall, twelve-foot maypole that had colored ribbons tied around it. Bokuto took a mental image in his head of the scene, eager to recreate it.

“It’s a May Day Eve festival,” Akaashi said, standing beside Bokuto. “Right, Kageyama?”

“Yes sir,” he nodded.

“Have you ever been to one?”

“My hometown celebrates it,” he said, a faint smile crossing his face. “We have a similar way of celebrating as the people here, actually. There will be stands serving blackberry wine and cold drinks. Special stew and fried food made with fresh, summer vegetables. The flower sellers would be weaving flower crowns and selling them for people to wear. And at night, the dances will begin.”

“Is it true that the young girls dance around the maypole?” Akaashi asked.

“Yes. It is a sight to see,” Kageyama nodded.

“If that is so, maybe we should stick around to witness it,” he said. Bokuto raised an eyebrow and smiled at the suggestion.

“But—”

“Come on, Kageyama. Even you want to stick around,” Akaashi nudged him, smiling playfully. “My mother is a boat ride away. The worst thing that can happen is that I get the flu again.”

“We’ll return home before midnight,” Bokuto added. A conflicted look came upon Kageyama’s face.

“Eleven o’ clock,” he finally said.

“Deal!” Akaashi said quickly before turning to Bokuto. “Now, where to?”

The festival was still hours away from starting so after Bokuto purchased his oil, the three of them roamed around town, being dragged off to wherever Akaashi pleased. But neither Bokuto nor Kageyama minded much, seeing as how happy Akaashi was to finally get a glimpse of the outside world. They visited dress shops, groceries, a woodworker’s studio, and florist’s shops where people had already begun making flower crowns. They lingered in a shop selling fabrics and yarns where Kageyama had perused and bought different threads for his embroidery before passing by a bakery to buy bread for lunch.

By the time the sun was close to setting, the town had come to life as the May Day Eve festival began. The town was lit with lanterns everywhere and a bonfire in the town square. “Well, it has started. Anything you want to do first?” Bokuto asked Akaashi.

“Well, the blackberry wine seems interesting,” Akaashi said, looking at one of the stalls.

“Have you ever drunk alcohol before?” Bokuto asked.

“I have the occasional glass of wine when my mother lets me.”

“Just, make sure not to get too drunk,” Kageyama muttered. But Bokuto was feeling mischievous and he was curious as to how a tipsy Akaashi looked like.

“You heard him, Akaashi. Let’s drink to our heart’s content!” he cheered, slinging an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder as they made their way to the stall with Kageyama following behind them. Bokuto had never tried blackberry wine but it was much cheaper than usual wine and sold by the bottle. He bought all of them one each. The wine was sweet, much sweeter than grape wine, but packed more of a punch. Kageyama only finished half of his bottle before retiring to one of the benches to sit down and most likely take a nap, leaving Bokuto and Akaashi to roam around the different stalls by themselves. They passed the rest of Kageyama’s wine between them and Bokuto was highly conscious of the fact that their lips were touching the same bottle. Bokuto knew that at some point, he’d have to stop drinking if he wanted to make it home with Akaashi and Kageyama, but it was a summer night and summer nights were dangerous and recklessness hummed through the air and Akaashi’s smile was dangerous and his hands were warm, and both of them ended up visiting the blackberry wine stall a few times.

By their third bottle, Bokuto found himself standing to the side and watching Akaashi peruse the flower crowns being sold by a vendor. Both of them were sweating from the summer heat and Bokuto could see that Akaashi’s cheeks were especially flushed by the alcohol. “Bokuto-san, how does this look?” Akaashi asked, looking up at him with a daisy crown on his head. Bokuto chuckled, noting that Akaashi seemed to be a bold, impulsive kind of drunk.

“This suits you better,” he said, gently removing the daisy crown and placing one of golden chrysanthemums on Akaashi’s head. “The gold brings out the green in your eyes.”

“You sure seem to like looking at them,” Akaashi scoffed. Bokuto could tell he was teasing him. The blackberry wine made him bold too, and two could play at that game.

“I’m supposed to. I’m your painter, aren’t I?” he raised an eyebrow, nearing closer to Akaashi’s face. By the way his eyes darted, he was caught off-guard for a second, but quickly regained his footing. Just as he was about to respond, a loud call echoed throughout the square.

“The maypole dance is beginning now. If you would like to join, come up front,” a young man yelled. Almost immediately after, people began skipping over to the maypole to claim one of its long, colored ribbons, most of them being young girls. But there were a couple of men as well.

“You should join,” Bokuto blurted out, nudging Akaashi with his shoulder. “To make the most of your May Day Eve festival experience.”

“You think so? What if I get the dance wrong?” Akaashi asked.

“You won’t,” Bokuto grinned.

“Alright,” Akaashi agreed, stepping forward, and turning around to say “But your eyes better be only on me,” he said, fixing Bokuto once again with that piercing stare of his. ‘Dangerous, dangerous,’ the insides of Bokuto hummed but he could only nod and watch Akaashi walk over to the maypole to claim a ribbon. He held it in his hand, taking position with the rest of the dancers. When the music began, Akaashi keenly observed the dancers’ movements, moving slowly at first to copy them, before slowly gaining confidence to not have to look at the others around him. As he danced close to the maypole before spinning outwards, Akaashi caught Bokuto in his gaze once again for one second, before smirking and turning around. Again and again, their eyes would meet, almost as if Akaashi was making sure Bokuto was looking at only him. ‘No, he’s definitely doing that on purpose,’ he said to himself. But with the way Akaashi looked tonight, he shouldn’t have even been worried about Bokuto looking at other people in the first place. His movements were graceful and elegant, especially for someone who had just learned the dance a few minutes ago, and the light from the lanterns and bonfire nearby made his tanned skin appear to glow.

Finally, the dance ended and Akaashi rejoined Bokuto. He was flushed, breathless, and his clothes were in disarray, but he looked more alive than Bokuto had ever seen him. “How was I?” he asked.

“It was as if you were on fire,” Bokuto answered.

They rejoined Kageyama by one of the benches and headed home, occasionally laughing and jostling each other like the young men on the way to serenade a woman. Only, Bokuto had never in his life been interested in women. Not even the most beautiful models that he had encountered during his apprenticeship. Rather, he found himself more drawn to men: those in famous paintings recreating Greek myths and stories from the Bible. His first time had been with a male model he had been working with. It was no secret among painters that homosexual relationships do occur, but it was scandalous enough to be kept secret and away from prying eyes.

Except now, Bokuto could tell that something was different about his feelings for Akaashi, the same way he knew to destroy his first portrait of him and delay the wedding. As a painter, Bokuto was only ever concerned about whether his paintings captured every lifelike detail of the model. But as he progressed through the portrait, he found himself constantly wondering whether Akaashi would accept the final product as a reproduction of himself. Bokuto found himself hating Mikoto-san and Akaashi’s arranged suitor, wherever in the world she was. How could they expect Akaashi to be married to someone who only saw a portrait of him? Especially one created by someone who had actual feelings for Akaashi.

“Akaashi-san, please be careful,” Kageyama said, helping up his master who had tripped once again inside the house. The alcohol seemed to have taken full effect as Akaashi could barely stand and his eyelids kept drooping. Kageyama put an arm around him and attempted to help him to the stairs.

“I can do that,” Bokuto volunteered, quickly lifting Akaashi in his arms. He weighed very little, most likely because of how sickly he was, and he groaned a reply before leaning his head against Bokuto’s chest. “It’s alright, Kageyama. I’ll put him to bed.”

“Alright, you can definitely handle him,” Kageyama nodded. “Well, good night, Bokuto-san,” he bowed, before leaving for his own quarters.

“Mmm… tired…” Akaashi mumbled.

“I know, I know. I’m getting you to bed now,” Bokuto said gently before going up the stairs. He struggled a bit with getting the bedroom door open with one hand before finally making it inside. Gently, he lay Akaashi down on his bed and lit the oil lamp on his bedside table to prevent himself from bumping into anything. Akaashi was still wearing the flower crown and Bokuto plucked it from his head and lay it gently on the table when Akaashi stirred awake.

“Bokuto-san,” he blinked, sitting up.

“You’re in your room now,” Bokuto smiled, lifting the blankets to tuck Akaashi in. “I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve gotten drunk.”

“How could you tell?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe you’re still like this even though you’re drunk,” Bokuto chuckled and shook his head.

“This was the best day I’ve ever had,” Akaashi sighed happily, looking up at Bokuto with sleepy eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” And, without him thinking, Bokuto found himself bending closer to Akaashi and gently stroking the side of his face. To his surprise, Akaashi didn’t pull away, rather, he raised a hand to press Bokuto’s against his cheek. It felt as if there was something he should say at this point, and so he said “You were an amazing dancer.” His voice was surprisingly hoarse and deep, even in his own ears.

“And you kept your eyes on only me,” Akaashi whispered in return, he was sitting up on his elbows and their faces were even closer.

“How could I not? You were the most beautiful one there.”

Bokuto had always read that summer evenings were wonderful, magical, and passionate. A time when the impossible crosses into the realm of the possible But, they were also dangerous. As dangerous as the look in Akaashi’s eyes, as dangerous as the heat that radiated outside and inside Bokuto. Not only were summer evenings dangerous because of the air of recklessness and impulse, but because anything good that happened lasted dangerously short. ‘I’m going to regret this someday,’ Bokuto knew. He could tell Akaashi knew. But that still didn’t stop them from closing the distance between their lips, for Bokuto to instinctively wraps his arms around Akaashi to pull him closer, for Akaashi to, in turn, wrap his arms around Bokuto’s neck. It was a kiss as passionate and dangerous as a summer evening, but nowhere near as short. When they emerged, both of them were as breathless as the maypole dancers.

Bokuto sucked in a breath and stood up, swallowing hard. Akaashi was wide-eyed, seemingly snapped out of the drunken state he was in. “I…” Bokuto stammered. “Should I…?”

“I think, it’s time we said good night now, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi nodded, sounding back to his rational self. Bokuto couldn’t agree more, muttering a hasty ‘good night’ before leaving the room, the summer evening’s kiss still on his lips.

…

Both of them were quiet the next day, even during breakfast that Kageyama woke up, earlier than both of them because he wasn’t hungover, to make. Bokuto couldn’t help but glance up sat Akaashi as he nursed his cup of strong, black coffee, only to find the young man distractedly looking out the window. ‘He couldn’t have forgotten about last night, could he?’ Bokuto wondered. He wouldn’t help but feel disappointed if Akaashi had. It couldn’t just have been the wine doing the talking, or rather, kissing.

Finally, it came the time for them to work on the portrait. Akaashi came into the dining room dressed once again in the same expensive suit with his hair fixed and yet, Bokuto couldn’t help but remember the wild-eyed, breathless Akaashi from last night. Wordlessly, the Akaashi in front of him sat down, got into his pose, and waited for Bokuto to start. Only, he was only able to get a few strokes of paint in before putting his brush down and confronting Akaashi.

“Are we not going to talk about last night?”

Akaashi’s eyes widened a fraction at the sudden gesture. “I…” he began and trailed off.

“Was it just… the wine?” Bokuto asked, feeling the wave of disappointment begin to wash over. “Because if you think that’s the case—”

“I was scared that you’d think that,” Akaashi suddenly interrupted him. There was a conflicted look on his face. This time, Bokuto waited for his full response. “I may have been drunk but, kissing you, that was fully intentional. I think, I think I wanted to do it for some time.”

“Y-you have?”

“I was just unsure if you felt the same way,” he continued. “That night, when you told me about you being a painter, I wanted to see if you befriended me because you saw me as someone worth being with. And when you said that you did it just to get the job done, I was disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, I lied,” Bokuto sighed. “I was, I didn’t want to finish the painting at that point. I thought it would be better if you hated me and I moved on from this whole thing.”

“But you didn’t finish the painting,” Akaashi said, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t you I painted. It was so different from the you I know and it didn’t feel right for me to turn that portrait in,” Bokuto answered, stepping forward. “Why did you finally choose to pose?” he asked, walking to Akaashi. Although, at that point, the answers were falling into place.

“Because I didn’t want you to leave. I wasn’t ready for you to leave,” Akaashi said, his smile growing until Bokuto stopped in front of him.

“I’m here now.”

“I know.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“You know the answer to that.”

And Bokuto did. Bending down, he cupped Akaashi’s face in his hands and kissed him. Gentler this time, gentler than their summer evening kiss last night. He felt Akaashi’s hands on the sides of his waist, clutching at his shirt as if he was scared of him letting go. Bokuto gently circled his thumb on Akaashi’s cheek, as if to say ‘don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ and the grip on his shirt relaxed. It didn’t matter that what they were doing was taboo or that Akaashi was engaged. In this estate, one that villagers didn’t visit and was bordered by the sea, no eyes were on them. They were in a world of their own.

“Where have you been all my life, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi murmured once they parted, their foreheads pressed against each other. “It’s strange. One of the reasons why I’ve never run away from this place despite the engagement and the constraining feeling is because it felt as if I would get a moment of liberty if I just waited. And it has come, in the form of you.”

“I don’t know about that. All I know is you’re the most beautiful and hardest thing I’ve ever had to paint,” Bokuto whispered.

“That beautiful?” Akaashi laughed, his breath tickling Bokuto’s nose.

“They say you’re more beautiful than your suitor.”

“Who’s they?”

“The ferryman of the boat I came here in,” Bokuto chuckled and stood up.

“Is it true?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

“You are a self-indulgent man, did you know that?”

“And you are the one who indulges me,” Akaashi grinned. “I don’t feel like posing for the portrait today,” he sighed. “Can’t we do something else.”

“We did something else yesterday,” Bokuto said. “But I think an extra day can’t hurt,” he smiled.

“Can we go to the beach again?” Akaashi brightened.

“Of course,” Bokuto chuckled.                                

This time, when they walked to the beach, they walked hand in hand, laughing and talking, stopping once or twice to kiss again. Years later, Bokuto would find himself unable to recall what it is they were talking about and instead, remembering only sights and sensations, which was more than enough for him. By the time they reached the beach, instead of Akaashi exploring the tide pools and wading in the water with Bokuto sketching in secret, they both sat down in the sand and spread their jackets out to lie on. Akaashi rest his head on Bokuto’s lap and handed him the volume of Greek Mythology book that he had snuck out.

“Read it to me again,” he said.

“Demanding, are we?” Bokuto raised an eyebrow but opened the book nonetheless.

“Of course,” Akaashi smiled and closed his eyes.

“Any particular story you have in mind?” he asked, thumbing through the pages.

“Look for what interests you,” Akaashi waved. Bokuto shrugged and went through the book until he came across a beautifully illustrated picture of a man staring at his reflection.

“The Myth of Narcissus,” he read aloud. “Am I saying the name right?”

“Yes,” Akaashi nodded. “Read on.”

And so Bokuto read aloud, feeling much more confident now than when he first read to Akaashi. Maybe its because he knew that the young man lying on his lap enjoyed the sound of his voice, something Bokuto never thought he’d bring. After a good half hour of reading, Bokuto himself felt tired and lay back in the sand. “Your turn,” he nudged Akaashi’s shoulder gently.

“Me?” he sat up, smiling sleepily at him before laying down on his chest with the top of his hair tickling Bokuto’s chin. It was a welcome, warm, weight on his chest and Bokuto circled an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Tell me a story.”

“Another Greek myth?” Akaashi asked. “Which one do you want to hear? I don’t even need to read aloud from this book.”

“Hmm well then. I’ve never really understood that epic poem. The one about Troy with Achilles and Hector,” Bokuto said. “I tried to read it once to study on Greek myths since they were so popular with painting commissions but it gave me a headache.”

“Ah, the Iliad,” Akaashi said. “Well, I’ve read about a million times. You’ve come to the right person.” Bokuto planted a kiss on his forehead. “There are many ways to start the story, but I like to take it back to when the goddesses Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite appeared in front of a poor boy named Paris.” And so, Akaashi told the story of the Iliad. His voice was nice and calming, enough to make Bokuto’s eyelids grow heavy, but engaging enough to keep him awake. Akaashi colored the tale with his own inserts and opinions, sometimes going to into detail about a particular hero’s story. And then, they came across the part of the story when Achilles had heard of Patroclus’ death.

“According to the story, he mourned for days and days on end for his dead lover,” Akaashi told.

“Wait, his lover?” Bokuto jerked his head up in surprise. “No one told me that his lover was Patroclus.”

“Well, in most translated versions of the text they describe Patroclus as a companion and a close friend. In the original text however—”

“Wait, you know Greek?” Bokuto sat up, disturbing Akaashi from his resting place. Akaashi raised an eyebrow at him.

“I can speak quite a few languages, Bokuto-san. I didn’t just twiddle my thumbs right here.”

“I should have known then,” Bokuto chuckled. “Anyway, you were saying…”

“Right. In the original Greek text, or as much was restored of it anyway, Patroclus is described as Achilles’ lover. And in fact, homosexuality was quite normal in Greece. There was a special troop of soldiers who fought in pairs with their beloved. They say they were won of the best fighters out there, because they always fought for their beloved. Additionally, it was believed that unions of the same sex were the only true kind of romantic love since it is not based on procreation unlike that of a man and a woman. And let’s not forget Sappho’s poetry and the Island of Lesbos,” Akaashi enumerated.

“Wow. So, why have I never heard of it before?” Bokuto said.

“The usual. The Christianized, civilized societies frown upon the practice so they conceal it in the translations,” Akaashi shrugged. “But I’ve always liked Achilles and Patroclus.”

“It’s all the more tragic then,” Bokuto sighed.                                      

“Yes, but upon Patroclus’ death, Achilles wished for his ashes, when he died, to be buried with Patroclus’. So that they’d meet in the Underworld even after he died,” Akaashi smiled wistfully.

“So, that was after Achilles got shot in the heel, right?”

“You’re skipping ahead,” Akaashi nudged him.

“Tell me the rest of the story then,” Bokuto nudged him back.

“It’s getting dark,” Akaashi shook his head. And true enough, Bokuto looked up to find that the sun was just about to set. He always loved watching for sunsets and yet, he didn’t notice it.

“Tomorrow then,” Bokuto pouted slightly and stood up, dusting the sand off his trousers before picking up his and Akaashi’s jackets.

“Unless… you would be content with reading by the fireside in my room.” Akaashi had said it almost nonchalantly but even in the dim light, Bokuto could catch the hopefulness in his gaze. And who was he to refuse?

“Alright. But let’s have dinner first. I think we’ve worried Kageyama to death staying outside this long.”

Although, it seemed that Kageyama wasn’t worried one bit as he was doing his embroidery by the small fireplace in the kitchen when they came in. Bokuto wondered if Kageyama was doubtful of how much time Akaashia and Bokuto had spent together that day that wasn’t related to the portrait. Either he wasn’t that perceptive or he just didn’t care. Akaashi and Bokuto finished dinner quickly and locked themselves in Akaashi’s room. Instead of going to bed, he stretched out on the carpet by the fireplace and patted the spot next to him. ‘Just like the beach,’ Bokuto thought with a smile and stretched out across the carpet with his head tucked on Akaashi’s lap. He closed his eyes and felt a hand gently run through his hair.

“Aren’t you going to continue the story?” Bokuto mumbled.

“I may have decided to preoccupy myself with,” Akaashi hummed and Bokuto felt fingers lightly skim over his cheeks and forehead and down his nose. “I wish I had your eye and skill to capture a subject through a painting.”

“How do you know I have skills with painting? The first portrait was a ruined one and you haven’t even looked at the one I’m painting now.”

“I just know,” he felt Akaashi shrug. “What goes on in your head when you paint me?”

“Well,” Bokuto opened his eyes to look up at him. “First, I sketch a basic outline on the canvas, just so I know where everything is in relation to each other. And then, I pencil in your features. You have really delicate features so I try to keep a light hand,” he said, raising his hand to brush against Akaashi’s cheek. “And I spend as much time as I want to on your hands.”

“And then?”

“Then I start mixing my colors. That was always my favorite part when it came to learning how to paint. It’s how my master trained me too. I would sit for hours scrutinizing something and mixing the right shade,” Bokuto chuckled at the memory. “I take my time too when I mix the color of your skin. Browns and yellows and a bit of red. And then I make different shades from that color with white or mixing in a bit more brown for shadows, and a bit more red for that healthy flush on your cheeks.”

“At least I look healthy in my portrait,” Akaashi said dryly.

“You look absolutely stunning in your portrait,” Bokuto laughed as Akaashi playfully swatted at him.

“Once I have your healthy complexion, I move on to other bits. Like mixing the perfect color and shades to match your green robe. The dark brown for your hair. And then I paint it all in, adding colors and blending in shades so that it looks as realistic as possible. And by far,” Bokuto ran the crook of his finger near Akaashi’s temple. “Your eyes are my favorite thing to paint. Actually, I could spend hours just looking at you and sketching you.”

“Haven’t you already?” Akaashi smiled.

“Eveything I’m doing now feels slightly different though. I guess it’s quite task having to paint someone you love.”

The word left Bokuto’s mouth before he even knew what he was saying. He could feel Akaashi tense slightly under him and he sat up quickly. “I—I didn’t mean, I mean I did but—I’m sorry, let’s pretend that never happened,” he stammered, seeing the shocked expression on Akaashi’s face.

“There’s no need for you to apologize,” he shook his head with a slight laugh. “Actually, I thought I was the crazy one for thinking that.”

“Wait, you mean…?”

“Would it be crazy for me to say that I think I’ve loved you ever since the day we first met?” Akaashi asked. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve always had the feeling that you were someone I’ve always known would come into my life.”

‘What a naïve thing to think,’ was what Bokuto knew he and Akaashi were thinking of. But Bokuto had also witnessed it happening. There were friends he knew back at the studio or met in bars who would talk about the ease they felt when falling in love. ‘I’ve been with many women before, but this one felt coming home after a long journey,’ one friend had told him.

“When you think about it, what were the chances of me being chosen to paint you, out of all other painters? What were the chances of me having to paint you, out of all other subjects? What were the chances of me arriving here safely out of all the accidents that occur at sea? What were the chances of the days we’ve spent here happening smoothly in perfect succession out of all other outcomes?” Bokuto said. He saw his questions answered in the look on Akaashi’s faces. “Maybe we were meant to meet each other.”

With that, Akaashi leaned in close to kiss him again, and again, and again. It was no longer that summer night kiss but one of longing and elation of having met and knowing that they were both on the same page. Bokuto could feel Akaashi’s hands cupping his face and sliding down his torso, thumbs hesitating near the buttons of his shirt until Bokuto permitted them to undo each one. Meanwhile, his kisses trailed down from Akaashi’s mouth to the side of his jaw, down to his neck, and in the center of his collarbone, just under his throat, lingering like a question mark. Akaashi adjusted his position, lying back onto the carpet, and slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest.

“I’m yours… Koutarou,” Akaashi whispered, beckoning him closer. Bokuto ran a finger tip down from Akaashi’s throat and down to his sternum. For once, he couldn’t imagine sketching nor painting this scene because there was no way it would be complete without the warmth and heat in their stares and beneath their fingertips. Sometime after Bokuto leaned down to kiss Akaashi and before they fell asleep in each other’s arms with only a thin blanket pulled from the bed to cover them, the image of the ghostly figure of Akaashi that Bokuto saw a few nights ago flashed in his mind.

…

The next few days were spent like so: Akaashi would pose and Bokuto would work on the portrait for a few hours each day before they’d go to the beach, or walk through the fields, or stroll through the town. At night, after dinner, they’d retire to Akaashi’s room with the door locked and their clothes ending up on the floor on more than a few occasions. Bokuto had never been happier waking up feeling Akaashi buries his face in the crook of his neck or waking up in the same position they had fallen asleep in when morning came. He’d always wake up before Akaashi did and held him tightly in his arms, praying that the sun would rise a bit more slowly or that Kageyama would wake up a bit later each day.

And the portrait was almost finished. Bokuto could feel himself subconsciously painting less each day or tweaking things like changing the color or painting over a finger again. He remembered one of the stories that Akaashi told him about Odysseus’ wife, Penelope, who had been left in their home island when he went to fight in the Trojan war. She was courted by many suitors and in order to delay having to marry someone until her husband came back, she excused herself by weaving her bridal train and unraveling the works she made each night. In the end, it felt pointless because delaying the portrait wasn’t going to do anything. Akaashi’s mother would return in a few days and leaving the portrait unfinished would just leave Bokuto without a job and having to cross the sea to go back home.

Bokuto took a small brush with a bit of the dark brown color he used to draw in details and scanned the canvas for anything left that he could possibly fix only to find nothing else. He was done. Bokuto stepped back and put down his paintbrush and palette.

“Do you need to take a break, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asked.

“It’s…finished,” Bokuto shook his head. The look of concern on Akaashi’s face dissolved into his usual stoic expression. “Would you, uh, like to have look?”

“Alright,” he nodded, standing up from his chair and walking over to look at the canvas. Bokuto knew that it was a lot better than the previous portrait that he made and destroyed. While looking at it, he couldn’t help but feel that everything about the portrait was truly his because only he could look at it and know that he captured more than Akaashi’s likeness, but everything he had come to know about the young man over the past weeks.

“Is that really how you see me?” Akaashi asked.

“Yes.”

“I look beautiful.”

“You do.”

“Do you think my fiancée would be pleased?” he asked. Bokuto felt a lead weight in his stomach.

“She should be. I could imagine this hanging over your mantle in the parlor.”

“I heard she lives in Kyushu, the place where my Mother is visiting now. It’s quite far from here,” Akaashi kept talking, his voice sounding dead in Bokuto’s ears.

“I’ve never been to Kyushu but my master has. He says its beautiful during the springtime with all the cherry blossoms in bloom. There are wonderful art museums to visit and there’s a local theater nearby that places traditional music ensembles,” Bokuto trailed off when he saw Akaashi looking out of the window where the sea was.

“I know you’re saying all these things to comfort me Bokuto-san, but to me it all just sounds like you’re trying to console me. Like how mothers would talk to their toddlers about giving them a treat to stop them from crying,” Akaashi said.

“What else am I supposed to say, Akaashi?” Bokuto sighed. “You know as well as I do that this can’t last. The hate and the scorn we’ll have to experience. I could lose my credibility. Your family would disown you.”

“Then let’s run away! Can’t we? We could just pack our things and leave on a boat and get out of here,” Akaashi exclaimed. Bokuto saw so much hope in his eyes and was loathe to crush it. The world that he wanted to live in existed in the pages of a book.

“They’re going to do everything to find us. Do you really want us to live our lives on the run? And what will we do when they do? I don’t know if your parents would still force you into an engagement but they’ll throw me in jail for kidnapping you,” Bokuto argued. He didn’t notice that his hands were balled into fists.

“Why does it sound like you’re just willing to let this pass?!” Akaashi suddenly raised his voice, shocking Bokuto. “After all this you’ll still find someone to love and warm your bed, maybe in secret but you’ll still have that chance. Once you hand over that portrait to my mother, there’s nothing more for me!”

Bokuto stepped back. In front of him was the Akaashi who had grown up in a lonely manor surrounded by books, who had seen himself in the love that Achilles and Patroclus shared but knew that it was frowned upon in the world outside, who had purposely delayed his inevitable engagement by putting off any painters who came. “I’m—”

“I need to be alone,” Akaashi cut him off, walking around and past him to leave the dining room. With nothing left to do, Bokuto sat back in his stool and stared at the painting of Akaashi as if it would give him answers. He received no answers, only the knowledge that this may be the best painting he had ever created.

…

Akaashi had locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, and the day after that, so it came as a surprise when Bokuto saw him in the kitchen with Kageyama. The two of them were seated at the table, sifting through grains of rice to find tiny insects, rice weevils, that hid themselves among the grains. Kageyama looked up to greet him first.

“Bokuto-san. Dinner won’t be ready until an hour from now. Do you need anything?” he asked.

“No, it’s alright,” Bokuto shook his head, eyes unable to help themselves from glancing at Akaashi whose head was bent over in his task, before sitting down at the table. “Actually, I’ll give you guys a hand.”

“It’s not an immediate task. Although, I find it quite relaxing to do so,” Kageyama explained.

“I could use some relaxing,” Bokuto nodded, looking down at the bed of rice grains that had been spread out on a large platter made from woven leaves. He spotted a weevil, as small as a rice grain but standing out due to its black color, and picked it out quickly before crushing it in between his fingernails. Akaashi still said nothing.

“The madam is coming back in two days,” Kageyama said. “She didn’t entrust me to check on the portrait but personally I do wonder about how it’s doing.”

“It’s already finished. I think she’ll be happy with it,” Bokuto answered.

“I’ll definitely miss this place,” Kageyama hummed to himself as he sifted absentmindedly through the grains with his fingers. They were long and elegant too, but not as fine or delicate as Akaashi’s was.

“Where will you once we leave?” Akaashi asked, looking sideways at Kageyama. “If ever you need a job, I’m sure I can lend a hand.”

“Thank you, Akaashi-san. Actually, my family comes from Kyushu. My grandfather and older sister run a small bakery and I was thinking of working there from now on until I get bored,” he said.

“That sounds wonderful,” Akaashi gave a small smile. “I’ll be nearby then.”

“I was also thinking of working at a library.”

“A library?”

“Yes,” Kageyama nodded. Bokuto smiled slightly to himself at how chatty Kageyama was being today. Maybe it was all that time they spent talking to him and trying to make breakfast in the kitchen. “My sister works as a governess and she made the effort to teach me how to read and write. Sometimes I…” he glanced at Akaashi and blushed slightly. “Forgive me but, sometimes I borrow a few books from the library to read at night.”

“You don’t need to be ashamed about that,” Akaashi chuckled. “That makes me happy, actually, knowing that I’m not alone reading all those books.”

“I also browsed through your favorite book once. The Greek mythology one…” he added shyly.

“What was your favorite story?”

“The one about Hercules because it sounds so amazing,” Kageyama smiled. “What about you, Akaashi-san?”

“I have a lot of favorites,” Akaashi smiled wryly, picking out a weevil and crushing it between his fingers. “But the one that resounds quite a bit with me now is the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.”

“I don’t think I’ve read that one.”

“It’s quite the tragic love story, actually,” Akaashi said. This time, when Bokuto looked up, he caught his eye and held his gaze for a few moments. “I could tell it to you if you like.” It was directed not only to Kageyama but to Bokuto as well, so he nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“Once upon a time, there was a man named Orpheus. He wasn’t a man though, not really, because his father was Apollo, the god of the sun and music and medicine, and his mother was a Muse. Because of that, he was gifted with the art of music. He traveled with a lyre and his voice was so high and sweet that anyone who heard it couldn’t help but stop and look for where the sound was coming from.

“Now, Orpheus fell in love with a woman named Eurydice. But their love didn’t last long for Eurydice died from being bitten by a snake. Orpheus was distraught with the loss of his wife that he resolved to save her. So, he took his lyre, and plucking it with his fingers, he sang a song so beautiful that the ground underneath him opened and he could walk all the way down to the Underworld. He kept singing on the way down and his voice lulled Cerberus to sleep and kept the monsters guarding from attacking him, all the way until he came upon Hades, the God of the Dead and Ruler of the Underworld, and his wife Persephone. And Orpheus sang a song about them that was so beautiful, they both bowed their heads and let him pass to greet the ghost of his dead wife, Eurydice.”

“That sounds beautiful,” Kageyama said.

“But it doesn’t end there,” Akaashi shook his head. “Hades allowed Orpheus to travel to the surface with his wife and for her to come alive once they returned to Earth. But he gave one condition: Orpheus wasn’t allowed to turn around once during their walk on the way up because if he did, Eurydice would return to the Underworld.

“Orpheus agreed to these conditions and set off with Eurydice following behind him. As he neared the surface, his heart was overcome with fear that he was walking alone and longing to see his wife again. And in a single, tragic moment of weakness, he couldn’t help but to turn around to see his wife tumbling back into the darkness.”

Everything was silent for a moment, except for the shifting of fingers through the rice grains. And then, Kageyema spoke up: “That’s pretty foolish of Orpheus to do.”

“Maybe,” Akaashi chuckled. “But there are different versions to the tale. In some, they say that Hades tricked the both of them, not intending for Eurydice to be let go, and so designed an impossible task for them to fulfill. In another, Orpheus instead chooses the memory of Eurydice and so turns around to have one last look at her. And in another, Eurydice knew that the test was impossible in the first place and whispered ‘Turn around’ to see her lover one last time.”

“It’s a tragic story,” Kageyama said. Bokuto silently drew swirling patterns in the rice when Akaashi said,

“All the real ones are.”

…

This time, it was Akaashi who knocked on Bokuto’s bedroom door. It was nighttime, almost an hour until midnight, and they were both far from the shores of sleep. Bokuto wordlessly stepped aside and let Akaashi in. He scanned the surroundings of the room curiously before choosing to sit at the edge of the bed where Bokuto joined him. “I… wanted to apologize,” Akaashi spoke up. His head hung down and he played with his hands on his lap. “It was unfair of me to ask unreasonable things of you when both of us knew where this was eventually going to head. I knew it even before I kissed you. I just… wanted to hope, that’s all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I wanted to hope too,” Bokuto reached over and took Akaashi’s hands in his. “I knew a fellow painter, we both attended classes together, who was caught sleeping with one of our male models. Both of them were kicked out of their respective guilds and blacklisted from ever being able to take commissions or enter another guild. I saw him in the street once with slurs being hurled at him while he begged around for alms.”

“That’s terrible,” Akaashi shook his head. Even recounting that memory left an acidic feeling in Bokuto’s stomach. He felt Akaashi clutch his hand gently with both of his, as if he was cradling a bird, and press it to his chest. Akaashi hung his head down and from the shake of his shoulders and the dampness on Bokuto’s hand, he knew he was crying.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with us being like this,” he sobbed, his words coming out in hiccupped breaths. “I’ve had to deal with knowing this all my life and the one time I’ve found someone to love, it’s all going to be taken away again.” Bokuto wrapped both of his arms around Akaashi and pulled him close. Akaashi clutched at his arms and buried his teary face on Bokuto’s shoulder.

“I just want you to know that I regret nothing from these last weeks. Nothing at all,” Bokuto felt his own voice breaking.

“I regret locking myself in my room for so long. Who knew that an entire day could be wasted so, so much?” Akaashi hiccupped. Bokuto pulled away and brushed the hair that stuck to Akaashi’s forehead, cupping his face in his hands.

“Let’s make the most of the time we have left then,” he said, leaning in to kiss him. Akaashi’s mouth was soft and warm and wanting as they both fell down into the bed. They rushed through nothing, taking their time memorizing as much as they could of each other’s bodies and as much as they tried to fight it off, sleep came eventually.

…

“You know, you’re probably the only person who’ll ever get to touch me like this,” Akaashi said, breaking the silence of the muggy, summer morning air. It was the day of Mikoto-san’s return and they hadn’t left the bed yet. Bokuto wasn’t sure if he had really slept that night, only that Akaashi was continuously stroking his hair and their breathing fell into the same pace.

“I’m probably the only one who knows how to touch you,” Bokuto rolled over to press his face against Akaashi’s bare chest.

“Yeah, that too,” Akaashi said sarcastically. “If only we could stop time and let things just pass like this.”

“If only, if only,” Bokuto sang, propping himself up by his elbows on the bed to look down at Akaashi. His hair messier than usual, mostly due to Bokuto’s wandering hands, and there were a few marks on his collar bone, also due to Bokuto. He liked seeing him like this and knew he would keep this image in his head to save for his future mornings.

“I could draw you like this,” he mumbled, dragging his fingertip lightly across Akaashi’s cheekbone.

“Then draw me like this,” he smiled.

“Alright. So, I have something to remember you by.” He got out of the bed and walked over to where he kept his sketchbook and drawing charcoals before coming back.

“How do you want me to pose?” Akaashi asked.

“Just like that,” Bokuto smiled up at him as he flipped to a fresh page and started sketching an outline. Akaashi held his position: head propped up with his hand with an elbow on the bed, the curves of his body just barely covered by the thin blanket. Bokuto made sure to capture everything, going in with a heavier hand to make Akaashi’s facial features as stark as possible. He prayed that termites or insects wouldn’t eat at his sketchbook, that the charcoal lines would never fade, that the paper would never tear. Finally, he finished and showed it to Akaashi.

“It’s beautiful,” he smiled, running his fingers on the paper around the sketch, careful not to smudge anything. “Make one for me too. Something to remember you by.”

Bokuto unhooked the small mirror that hung on the wall above where he kept a basin of water for washing his face. Akaashi took it from him and held it steady in front of his chest while Bokuto peered at his reflection in between sketching. He had opened his sketchbook to a fresh page when Akaashi stopped him.

“Wait, can you sketch it here?” he asked, handing over his book of Greek Mythology that had somehow made its way to Bokuto’s nightstand.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

Bokuto thumbed through the pages until he landed on one with a good amount of free space. He had been trained to create self-portraits and could do passable ones. This time, he took extra care in capturing the details of his features. It was the only thing Akaashi would have left of him, so Bokuto wanted to capture himself as accurately as possible. ‘Remember this, and everything that happened here,’ he whispered into his sketch. Finally, he passed the book back to Akaashi.

“Page 57. I’ll remember it,” he smiled, sitting up to kiss Bokuto on the lips. It was sweet and wonderful and made them both long for more, but they knew it was there last. “I’ll always love you. No matter what happens,” Akaashi whispered, taking Bokuto’s hand and pressing his lips against the knuckles. “My beautiful painter.”

After dressing up and going downstairs for breakfast, they passed the time playing chess in the library, barely speaking except for when Akaashi was teaching him how the game was played. Finally, they both heard a knock at the door, the sound of Mikoto and other people coming in, and knew that their time had come.

The rest of the events that happened were a blur for Bokuto. He nodded and smiled as Mikoto gushed over the portrait and praised his skill before sealing the canvas away in a wooden box, much like the one Bokuto traveled with. The sound of nails pounding into the wood to seal it shut made Bokuto think of coffins. Mikoto called Akaashi to his bedroom upstairs to present him with a gift. After making sure the portrait was safe and taken care of, he headed to Akaashi’s room to bid his goodbyes.

Before that though, he clearly remembered Kageyama approaching him to say goodbye. He had said something along the lines of ‘Thank you for coming here. Akaashi-san was happy these past weeks,’ to which he nodded and smiled, giving him a hug before saying his goodbye to him. Bokuto threw his things into his suitcase before finally going to Akaashi’s room.

What happened upstairs wasn’t a blur in his memory either. Bokuto remembered, knocking politely on the door, hearing Mikoto inviting him to come in, going inside to receive his payment from her. He was aware of Akaashi standing in the middle of the room but couldn’t raise his head to meet his eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye to me?’ Akaashi had said out loud, calling to him. Bokuto could hear the slight crack in his voice. As much as he knew it would be more painful for him to do so, Bokuto walked forward, his eyes still downcast, to wrap his arms around the man he loved with all his heart. He closed his eyes to remember this last feeling of warmth before quickly disentangling himself and heading out the door.

His own footsteps thundered loudly in his ears, especially because of how little he could see in the dark interior of the manor. Bokuto almost slipped on the carpet but caught himself using the stairway railing. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was suddenly aware of another set of footsteps but it was only when he opened the manor’s door that he heard Akaashi speak:

“Turn around.”

He didn’t even need to be told twice. Bokuto turned around to find Akaashi standing in the middle of the parlor, illuminated by the single shaft of light spilling into the slightly ajar doorway, wearing a new, navy blue suit that his mother bought. The suit he was going to wear for his wedding. Akaashi’s eyes betrayed the words ‘Keep this memory.’

Bokuto let out a single, choked sob before leaving the manor, shutting the door, and losing Akaashi to the darkness.

#across the sea #bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #bokuaka fanfic #haikyuu!! #haikyuu!! fanfic #portrait of a lady on fire!au #across the sea: act. II

[foodreceipe]

Into the Icy Depths! 10 Rules for Freezing Food – From Berries to Beef

Scared to find out what’s lurking at the back of your freezer? Here are expert tips for how to get it organized – and what you should never put in there. The Guardian - Tony Naylor

Think of your freezer like a filing cabinet - stack and label.

Do not feel guilty if you neglect your freezer. It happens to the best of us. “I don’t think I cleaned ours at home in a year until lockdown,” confesses Nina Matsunaga, the chef-owner at the Black Bull Inn in Sedbergh, Cumbria. “We do our work freezer every couple of days.”

Like Matsunaga, many of us are looking anew at our freezers. Covid-19 has concentrated minds on saving money, minimising waste and shopping less frequently. People are storing more, collectively, and after a 30 percent spike in the month before lockdown, frozen food sales have continued to rise, according to the British Frozen Food Federation.

You can work productively with whatever you have, from giant chest freezers to single compartments in small fridges. All sub-zero space is useful. But how many of us know how best to utilise what in her book The Ice Kitchen Shivi Ramoutar describes as an “unfashionable” preservation method? What freezes well? What doesn’t? How do you manage those icy depths? We asked the experts.    

Is There a Broad Rule When Choosing What (Not) to Freeze?

Freezing produces structurally damaging ice-crystals. Slow freezing produces bigger crystals. Therefore, “drier” ingredients freeze best. Peas thrive at -18C, while berry fruits turn to mush as they defrost. If you are making jam that is fine but freezing can ruin less flexible foods.

For instance, the Michelin-starred chef Tom Kerridge, owner of the Butcher’s Tap butcher in Marlow, Buckinghamshire, warns against freezing prime cuts – even high-grade, dry-aged beef – and particularly cheaper, watery steaks: “The muscle fibres get stretched and when it defrosts water comes out and that steak’s juiciness becomes insipid. You’ve broken its body.”    

How Do You Protect Food in That Icy Environment?

Exposed to freezing air, loosely wrapped foods become dry, icy and corroded – so-called “freezer burn”. To avoid that, place food in reusable silicone pouches or heavy plastic food bags, push as much air out as you can, and seal. Freeze each pack laid flat at first to minimise ice crystals. “Flat surface areas freeze quicker,” says Dan McGeorge, the head chef at Rothay Manor, Cumbria, which also allows you to arrange your freezer like a filing cabinet.    

Sorry, Filing Cabinet?

We tend to dump stuff in freezers where it sits for years, unlabelled and unidentifiable. Avoid that by labelling your flattish packs of rice, soups, sauces, shredded meat, chopped vegetables etc top right and storing them upright in a freezer drawer like files, rotating the oldest to the front. “You just riffle through to find the right pack and pull it out,” says Lulu Grimes, the managing editor of BBC Good Food.

  Ramoutar’s labels include the date the food was frozen (her general rule is to use everything within three to six months) and: “How I reheat it, so H for hob, O for oven, a temperature and time.” You can buy special freezer labels, but paper, pen and sticky tape works. Avoid washable markers that rub off easily.

Tip! From bacon rashers to egg whites, portion food into identifiable, user-friendly quantities. “Don’t freeze berries, sausages or meatballs in blocks,” advises Si Toft, the chef-owner at the the Dining Room in Abersoch, Gwynedd. “Lay them on greaseproof paper, freeze for two hours, then bag them and take out individual handfuls.”    

Is There Anything You Should Never Freeze?

Very little gets a flat no. Defrosted boiled eggs and raw potatoes are grim, however, and raw egg yolks go rubbery. “Whisk them slightly and add a stabiliser – salt or sugar, depending on what you’re doing with them,” suggests Ramoutar.

Generally, this is a question of preparation and end use. Can you be bothered to protect a food’s textural integrity and will that matter? Deseeded, salted, sliced, rinsed, dried and frozen cucumber makes lovely crunchy batons for dips, but that is a lot of graft. Conversely, soft herbs that turn into dark mulch as they defrost taste fine in soups and sauces – as do finely chopped vegetables. Large pieces of raw vegetable become spongy in the freezer, which will not enhance your Sunday roast. Cook before freezing for a better result.    

Broadly, if you are going to blitz it later, if you just need the flavour and not the mouthfeel, you can freeze anything. But blanching soft herbs and vegetables – submerge briefly in boiling water, plunge them into ice, dry them thoroughly – helps to retain colour and flavour.    

Can You Freeze Milk and Cheese?

Milk, yes. Cheese is complicated. “I don’t recommend it,” says Dan Bliss of the cheesemonger Paxton & Whitfield. “The moisture and fat splits. Defrosted cheese has a weird texture. But avoiding food waste is close to my heart. Hard, mature cheeses and firm blues freeze better – they are fine in a toastie, and you get amazing pockets of molten cheese in scones when you add grated frozen cheese to the mix. With soft cheeses, make lasagne or sauces and freeze those.”    

What Is the Problem With Fish?

Historically, “fresh” fish was regularly frozen at sea and defrosted for sale, which meant you could not freeze it at home without cooking it first (on the basis that you should not refreeze defrosted food). That is no longer always true. Ask your fishmonger for guidance or check the label, which may explain: “This product was previously frozen and has been restored to chill temperature under carefully controlled conditions. It is still suitable for home freezing.”

Ideally, freeze whole fish or skin-on fillets. Brining the fillets (10 percent salt solution, 20-40 minutes), helps to firm up the delicate flesh. Thoroughly dry the fish, and wrap it in a moisture-absorbing cloth and lots of clingfilm. “When you think you’ve got enough, double it. The secret is knowing it’s covered,” says the chef John Molnar, owner of the Cod’s Scallops fishmongers and chip shops in Nottingham. 

Molnar dislikes freezing seafood – although, interestingly, freezing helps to tenderise fresh squid and octopus – but, carefully separated and wrapped, scallops work well: “Stacked like a packet of Rolos.”    

Do You Really Need Fresh Herbs and Spices?

If you want them to look great, yes. If you just need flavour, no. Soft herbs can be blitzed and frozen in cream or oil, and you don’t need to carry a vast array of fresh spices to make curry. “I freeze whole spices to keep them fresh: tamarind paste, curry leaves, blitzed ginger, garlic and whole fresh turmeric, which I grate when needed,” says Sumayya Usmani, a Pakistani food expert and owner of Glasgow’s Kaleyard Cook School.    

Can a Freezer Fast-Forward My Cooking?

In endless ways, from using cooked frozen rice in stir-fries (undercook it by 20 percent, make sure you cool it quickly, freeze) to making soup in minutes from frozen spinach. Freezing flavoured butters (chipotle, jerk, sriracha, lime and chilli), is a simple flavour-boosting shortcut, while Matsunaga’s freezer contains various raw doughs, fresh yeast (“Use it straight from the freezer”) and even parathas cooked in a dry pan. “They are fantastic defrosted and fried in ghee or butter – like a fresh batch.”    

Ramoutar makes no-cook, soft-set freezer jam (“Blitz fruit, sugar and a little citrus and pop it in”) and Carl Clarke, the chef-founder at Chick ‘n’ Sours, London, creates instant ice-cream by freezing, for example, bananas, dark chocolate, peanut butter and coconut yoghurt and combining them in a powerful, Nutribullet-style blender.    

If Not Prime Cuts, Can We Freeze Any Meat?

“Professionally, I’m not keen,” says Kerridge. Indeed, most chefs use the freezer as a tool for meat rather than for storage. If you want perfectly cubed pancetta or incredibly thin beef for carpaccio, firm the meat by freezing it for 30 minutes, then slice it. James Cochran, the head chef at 12:51 restaurant in London, uses a Microplane to grate frozen beef on to poached eggs (“like fancy tartare”) and bone marrow into mash, “like parmesan, to add umami”.    

Kerridge is more open to freezing meat at home – “cured meats work fine” – and in braises, curries or stews, where the sauce is the main flavour, it will be impossible to detect if the beef shin, ham hock or chicken breasts used were frozen. “Packet chicken breasts are just protein which takes on the flavour of whatever they are cooked in,” he says.    

Is the Freezer a Baker’s Secret Weapon?

It certainly lends itself to cool hacks (sorry). Chilling layers of a celebration cake makes them less fragile as you trim and level them, but also, says Rachel Stockley, the head chef at Baratxuri in Ramsbottom, Bury, if you freeze the icing as you complete each layer it produces a smooth, hard finish, so the cake “sits in those even layers the pros get”. After glazing sausage rolls and pies, Andy Waugh, of Mac and Wild, London, freezes them for 30 minutes and repeats that before cooking: “It gives you an extra-lush finish.” The freezer will even save wedges of dry fruit cake, advises Scott Paton, the head chef at Boringdon Hall, Devon: “The fruit plumps up and makes the cake moist.”    

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/into-the-icy-depths-the-10-rules-for-freezing-food-from-berries-to-beef?utm_source=pocket-newtab

#Freezing Food

[livingcorner]

How to Stock an Indonesian Pantry

Depending on what and where you eat, you might mistake an Indonesian dish for an Indian curry, Chinese fried rice, or a Filipino stew. But nothing is quite like Indonesian cooking. And once you learn what goes into it, you’ll be able to recognize it anywhere.

A World of Influences

No doubt, Indonesia’s multifaceted cuisine has numerous influences: Arab and Indian traders brought spices, rose essence, and dishes like martabak (stuffed pancakes). The Spanish introduced chiles. Rijsttaffel (literally “rice table”) is the larger-than-life Dutch interpretation of the traditional Indonesian meal of rice plus several dishes. But the Chinese immigrants likely had the biggest impact, bringing noodles, soy sauce, and soybeans to the archipelago.

You're reading: How to Stock an Indonesian Pantry

Of course, cooking styles and ingredients vary according to region. The food found on Java and Sumatra are better recognized globally—think beef stew (rendang), chicken satay (sate ayam) and chicken turmeric soup (soto ayam). But branch further out to places like Sulawesi (Celebes) and you’ll find meat- and blood-stuffed bamboo tubes, and fresh-caught fish, grilled and served with a variety of dipping sauces (sambal).

But a Dark Horse in the U.S.

While Indonesian cuisine is revered both within the country and regionally in Southeast Asia, it isn’t as well-known as say, Thai or Vietnamese cuisine in the U.S. There could be any number of reasons, but chief among them is population. The 2010 U.S. Census counts only 95, 270 Indonesians in the country. Since Indonesia was a Dutch colony until 1949, it has had fewer political, economic, and cultural ties to the United States than many other Asian nations. For a comparison, that same census accounts for 3,416,840 Filipinos living in America.

Global cuisine is often promoted through restaurants. Unfortunately, the Indonesian Embassy knows of only 34 restaurants stateside. Not that I’m surprised. Many Indonesian dishes are laborious to prepare, and few Indonesians who migrate to the U.S. deign to open restaurants. (I speak from experience; my family ran one in Seattle from 2007 to 2012. It was popular but a lot of hard work. Let’s just say family cohesion won out in the end!)

The good news is Indonesian cuisine won’t be totally foreign to Americans already enjoying Southeast Asian food.

The Essentials

If you’ve cooked Indian and/or Thai food, you’ll find the ingredients familiar. Turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, and coriander are some of the most-used spices. Lemongrass, lime leaves, ginger, and galangal are ubiquitous. Nutmeg, native to Indonesia’s Banda Islands (part of the Maluku or original Spice Islands) is usually sprinkled into Dutch-influenced dishes like macaroni schotel and risoles. These spices and herbs are blended into spice pastes called bumbu, the very foundation of Indonesian cooking. Herbs like lemongrass, salam, and galangal (a trio I dub the Indonesian bouquet garni) are tossed in while cooking and removed prior to serving.

You can easily find Indonesian ingredients at an Asian market that caters to a Southeast Asian clientele, and maybe even at a specialty store. Any other ingredients, like some of the ones below, can be bought online. I have included my prefered brands but in all honesty, some ingredients are so hard to come by, I say take what you can get! Online sources include:

Indo Food Store

Indo Merchant

Ramayana Store

Import Food

Aromatic Ginger

A.K.A. kencur, zeodary

Used sparingly, aromatic ginger’s unique camphor-like flavor is a welcome addition to dishes like vegetables in coconut stew (sayur lodeh) and Balinese duck curry (bebek Betutu). This reddish-brown rhizome is probably one of the more obscure Indonesian herbs—even I only discovered it recently when my mom revealed the secret ingredient in her fried corn fritters. Sometimes mistakenly called lesser galangal, aromatic ginger is available in the U.S. dried or powdered.

Candlenut

A.K.A. kemiri Ingalls Photography

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Read more: What Color Should I Paint My Kitchen with White Cabinets? 7 Best Choices to Consider

Similar in size and texture to macadamias (which is a decent substitute), candlenuts must be cooked—usually pan-fried—first to remove toxins. These waxy, cream-colored nuts are usually ground with other herbs and spices to add body and texture to curries, sauces and braises. They are high in oil content and will go rancid quickly if not refrigerated. Frozen, they keep for up to a year.

Fried Shallots

Fried Shallots

Fried shallots are showered over everything from fried noodles to soups and sambals. My mom even adds it to spring roll fillings for flavor and crunch. Fried shallots aren’t difficult to make, just tedious and messy. My mom would slice shallots (and Asian shallots are tiny, mind you!), dry them in the sun, then deep-fry. When I came home from school as a little girl, I would often find my mom next to a mountain of fried shallots sitting on newspaper to soak up the oil.

For convenience, I buy fried shallots in big containers from the Asian market. These store-bought brands are usually imported from Vietnam and Thailand. My mom swears by the packages of fried shallots she stashes in her suitcase every time she returns from a trip to Indonesia.

Galangal

A.K.A. laos, lengkuas Penny de Los Santos

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A member of the ginger family, galangal has a distinctive fragrance and flavor. Look for the more tender young galangal that’s pinkish in color. In Indonesian cooking, it is used in braises, soups, and for fried chicken. Peel then chop the rhizome before adding it to a spice paste. Or cut into half-inch slices and toss into soups. If you can’t find fresh galangal, buy them dried and soak 10 minutes in hot water before using.

Indonesian Palm Sugar

A.K.A. gula jawa/merah Matt Taylor-Gross

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Indonesian palm sugar is sold in solid blocks or cylinders. Made from the sap of the arenga palm (and sometimes coconut palm), it tastes of molasses or caramel and is used to make sweets and to balance flavor in certain savory dishes. To measure, shave or grate pieces off the block. Granulated coconut sugar or dark brown sugar make good substitutes.

Indonesian Sweet Soy Sauce

A.K.A. kecap manis James Oseland

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The Chinese introduced Indonesians to soy sauce and they made it their own by adding sugar! The Indonesian version has the usual soybeans, wheat, and salt but also includes palm sugar and molasses. It is much thicker and sweeter than regular soy sauce which is called kecap asin or kecap Cina (salty or Chinese kecap). If you can’t find Indonesian sweet soy sauce (Cap Bango is my favorite brand), Chinese or Thai sweet soy sauce will suffice. Or you can make your own with this recipe.

The fried rice of my childhood is doused in sweet soy sauce, and when kitted out with chopped bird chilies and shallots, it makes a delightful dip for fried fish or fresh vegetables. I buy Cap Bango when I can find it, and Cap ABC is my second choice.

The kluwak “nut” is actually the seed of the kepayang tree, a tall tree native to the mangrove swamps of Southeast Asia. The oily, hard-shelled seeds contain hydrogen cyanide and must be boiled then buried in the ground to ferment and be rid of the toxin. W

hen cracked open, the chocolate-brown meat of the fermented kluwak nuts is ground up to prepare rawon, a thick, black stew made with beef or chicken. Kluwak is also made into sambal with garlic and chilies. Back in the day, my mom had to buy kluwak in the shell. She’d crack open each and every nut and scoop out the meat. It was a laborious process but the resulting dish was so tasty! Thankfully, now I can buy prepackaged dried, peeled kluwak even in the U.S.

Lime

A.K.A. jeruk

Limes are indispensable in Indonesian cooking. The juice and rind are both used, for drinks, to flavor marinades, and in soups.

Read more: What Is a Kitchen Hand?

With its wrinkled skin and limited amount of juice, the lime called jeruk purut (makrut, or what used to be known as kaffir), is almost impossible to find in the U.S. unless you grow your own. Back home, my mom used the juice and rind (she’d toss it into the marinade) to brighten the flavor of barbecue foods like grilled chicken (ayam panggang) and satay. The leaves are more commonplace, adding fragrance and flavor to coconut-based braises and soups like tripe soup (soto babat). Potent whether fresh or dried, the leaves can be ripped off the spine and crumpled to release its fragrance and flavor; or slice thinly into ribbons. Frozen leaves keep beautifully.

Jeruk limo (Nasnaran Mandarin) are small and very juicy. They are excellent in sambals and used to neutralize the “fishy” smell of seafood. My uncle has a jeruk limo tree in his Southern California garden and my mom receives care packages every few months. She freezes the limes and uses them sparingly.

Another lime, jeruk nipis, is very similar to key limes. Squeeze over sambals and noodle soups. I often use a combination of lime leaves, key limes and Meyer lemon to replicate the flavors.

Pandan

A.K.A. screwpine leaves Matt Taylor-Gross

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I’ve dubbed pandan the vanilla of Southeast Asia. This fragrant leaf imparts both aroma and color to many Indonesian dishes, both sweet and savory. Pandan leaves are often tied in a knot and steeped in a syrup that’s added to various drinks and desserts. It is also tossed into sweet snacks like sweet black rice porridge (bubur hitam), coconut rice and curries.

As a coloring agent, the leaves are crushed together with some water and squeezed to release their green juice. Bottled pandanus extract is available, but the artificial flavor puts me off and I’d rather go with frozen leaves instead. I still dream of the pandan chiffon cakes that my mom used to make.

Salam

A.K.A. daun salam

Salam leaves (Eugenia polyantha Wight.), a member of the cassia family, add a sweet, earthy flavor to many dishes. They are sometimes called Indonesian or Indian bay leaves. Indeed, they are used in the same way bay leaves are used in Western cooking, but the two are not interchangeable. Salam leaves are only available dried in the U.S. If you can’t find any at the Asian market, omit. It is one of three key ingredients in the Indonesian bouquet garni.

Shrimp Paste

A.K.A. trassi, terasi Matt Taylor-Gross

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As a little girl, I ran the other way whenever my mom started frying shrimp paste. Sometimes, she’d fry it in her gigantic steel wok; sometimes she would skewer a large chunk of it and stick it in the open flame of our gas stove. Thankfully, she always cooked in our outdoor kitchen. The blackened shrimp paste was then sauteed with chilies, shallots, bell peppers and palm sugar to make my mom’s famous chili-shrimp paste (sambal terasi). Raw Indonesian shrimp paste is sold in solid blocks (a pain to break up) as well as in a cooked, granulated form which is so much more convenient to use—buy it if you find it.

In Indonesian, asam literally means ‘sour,’ hence tamarind’s name, asam Jawa. Other sour fruit exist (including asam gelugur and asam kandis) but tamarind is the souring agent I use most often. I’ve seen both dried tamarind pods and “wet” tamarind (coffee-colored blocks in cellophane packaging) at the Asian market, but I prefer wet tamarind. And if I can help it, I never ever buy the ready-made tamarind paste or pulp. It is so lacking in flavor. Break off chunks of wet tamarind and soak in hot water. Sieve to retrieve the pulp.

When Indonesians were given soy beans, they made tempeh—fermented soybeans compressed into savory cakes with a distinct, nutty flavor. Rich in protein and other minerals, tempeh is a nutritional powerhouse and a staple food for many Indonesians, especially in rural areas where meat is scarce. In the U.S., it is a popular meat substitute and available at many mainstream grocery stores. To make Indonesian recipes, buy the plain ones and leave the marinated or smoked versions for next time.

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Kitchen

source https://livingcorner.com.au/how-to-stock-an-indonesian-pantry/

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[driftwork]

a port story [1]

[ I am reasonably certain I will never go to Lisbon again, the only aspect of Portugal that will come into my life now are humans who have migrated here for social-political-economic reasons, which is the only reason anyone moves anywhere] I had never been to the city before and was intending to spend a few days there before traveling north. The hotel was a nice business hotel, the room anonymous and comfortable. I wandered around the city and was going to a restaurant in one of the nice squares,  neither of the names, the restaurant or the square matter, forgotten as they are, obscured by passing time.  The restaurant I remember  had comfortable chairs, mirrors on the walls, wooden tables, round, square and a few triangular tables, the cuisine was mix of international and local Portuguese.  Some of the international dishes were served with a delicate local reinterpretation, a few clams added, a red wine sauce reimagined with local fortified wine.  Either way I have fond memories of the place.  I think I took a bus from the square the hotel was in, or perhaps I walked, I am unsure. Let's say it was a bus with aluminum poles wrapped in yellow reinforced plastic tape that took me to the district, the square. Which was full of people, adults and children. It was early evening, before seven. I was early as the table was booked for eight. We had agreed to meet in the restaurant at eight, she would be on time, she was always on time, arriving in the district early and meandering slowly so that she would arrive ontime.  I had an hour to use so I went to an old cafe on the east side of the square, the sunlight poured like liquid gold onto the front of the cafe, crawling under the old sun-bleached awnings. The cafe served a vast array of different drinks, it had various types of billiard tables and a pinball machine with images celebrating yuri gagarian’s test flights and a trip around the moon. i ordered  a glass of Marsala and an espresso, and started watching a game of bar billiards being played between two old grey haired men,  one of the old men was using a walking stick to support his weaker left leg, clear blue eyes, his hair cut short and he was evenly matched with his friend,  he was hitting the pins and sinking balls with the sharp eyes of a professional billiards predator. Do you want a game ? He asked. No I replied, I cannot play bar billiards, though if you like and can tell me the rules as we play, honestly, we could play for who pays for the glass of port? He smiled at me, where are you from? Overseas?  A bit, I admitted carefully. Where from, Catus Minor, I said. I don’t know where that is, he said.  The south end of the  Haydes. That’s strange, still never heard of it, but there are so many new countries these days. He said scratching his head and then polishing his cure. So what’s your name? Petr, I said in english with the purely english home counties accent. Petr is the short version that friends and people call me. So youré baptised, a christian he said. Oh no,  we are all atheists in my family and culture. There are lots of deities here, but on Catus Minor there are none, nobody knows why. It's said that gods only exist here in  the entire galaxy… Really? he waved the waiter over and ordered drinks. I know what you need, a beautiful african, good price, about 19 or 20 from Mozambique, just arrived.  No thanks my partner would be upset, and besides I have to meet some people at the restaurant over the square, I said paused, so I have no time for girls or boys either.  So what are you doing here then?  I am meeting a woman and perhaps her husband in the restaurant.  I thought about lighting a cigarette, <cigarettes in those days were harmless again>  but decided not to, i am looking for a man and they may be able to help me. I am just here killing time. Just a second, why are you looking for the man? What for? he asked intensely.  Maybe nothing,  I simply lost track of him and need to connect with him again. I have come all this way from Catus Minor just to look for him,  i would like to speak to him again, its pretty urgent. So i have this appointment in the restaurant, its full of mirrors and memories. I have never been, it has triangular tables,  i  hope we will sit at such a table. I have never been before. Sounds quite exciting, he said, are you paying? no we’ll be splitting the bill, they have money i believe. Is it a place for fascists? He asked. Probably as its expensive, though they aren’t. I left him with the port and walked around the edges of the square to the restaurant…[We met when we were young whilst working in a decorating chain store that sold paint and wallpaper and the usual tools, paint brushes, poisons chemicals and so on. I think we were both about 20 or 21, he had recently got married to his deeply neurotic girlfriend, how could he be married at such a young age you might think, people simply did that in that place at that time.  Later though,  not that much later he became a near-legendary troublemaker primarily in the micro-political realm. At that time to be political, to be a socialist meant that you were focused on the micro-political as the enemy had almost filled the macro-political realm with lessor variants of themselves. Before that he’d originated from the mid-west, in a German high school there, to be in that private school meant you would probably be taught by anti-capitalist teachers and going to the German High school meant you knew of the world, that you’d go on trips across the Atlantic to Berlin, New York and Paris. Whereas people like me going to a Secondary Modern school on the outskirts of London were going to a terrible anti-intellectual school staffed by imbeciles who hated us and themselves  —— in this place we were taught about the history of the local monarchs, the great men of history discourses that the imbeciles liked. Now that I think of it in those days there were still teachers who left to travel to the colonies and ex-colonies to preach and convert. Others who were ex-colonials explaining how good the empire was for everyone.  A few years later, i remember it well, in a cafe in north London, their children were still explaining that American, French and Belgium colonialism was worse, they were children and couldn't count. Not long after that these same people decided to start murdering people again.  Eventually I took the line of flight as far away as I could travel, whilst he continued to drift around europe.  When we  finally separated we still spent a few summer vacations in various cities and seaside towns, Italy, south western France, the Balkans.  He dreamed of painting, his output consisting mostly of windows with shutters, still lives, iron bars, plastic frames and occasionally lace curtains that hinted at humans hiding, mostly from themselves behind the lace.  When he stopped painting or drawing we would go for a walk. It was on the last of these walks, the last time we were together that he said, someday if I kill myself, I'll do it slowly, as if I have a terminal illness over a six month or year long period, saying delirious goodbyes from the hospital bed. Did he do that, is my search in vain?]

When I arrived at the restaurant they were already sitting at a triangular table with a small crystal pitcher full with vodka martini, slices of lemon floating, there were three martini glasses on the table, theirs not quite full, mine empty. She poured some of the perfect liquid into my glass.  Hello, I said, how ae you?  They looked neutrally at my face, you look younger than we expected she said. Its the relativity effect. Time passes more slowly during space travel, even now. A friend is always a friend, he said philosophically. We exchanged small talk, briefly touching on the stories of our lives. The events, music, images and stories, the politics, communities and cultures we had passed through in the recent past.  I told them about the media at home, they told me about how their local right-wing discourse had become dominant by allowing itself to be subculturized, falsified and socialized.  They were, (I remember sitting there sipping the drink,) database animals... their social values and standards were always dysfunctional, which is why they felt a pressing need to  construct alternative values and standards. Eventually this faded away and it had become clearer who we were. Only then, when it may have become impossible, we began to talk about the reason why  I wanted to meet them... Eventually after  they explained about the suicide, the leap from the 22nd floor onto the plaza in the middle of the night. Wait, I said,  where was he buried? where are his remains I asked.  But most of all I wanted to know  what were his motives ? why ? We don't know his personal motives, he never told us about his personal motives for anything.  You must have known something, was he depressed, mad, pregnant, you had eyes to see the state of things?  He stroked his beard and eyebrows,  a strangely neutral and yet erotic gesture directed I thought at her.  He poured some more martini into his glass, ordered some more liquor. But they couldn't say anymore.  They couldn't say where he was buried, nor even how his body was dealt with, did someone inherit his kidney, heart, eyes, liver?  Cremated, buried, frozen... I ate  pan fried fish,  fried sweet potato chips,  some forgotten vegetables, an unmemorable desert.  They disappeared into Brasil.  Days later as I prepared to leave Lisbon  the doubts crept in,  I thought, that perhaps,  I should confirm he was dead by speaking to some other people, perhaps their were some family members still living in the  house in S.Ware,  I couldn't remember the number, the street must look the same though. Perhaps he is still alive.  That's all there is.... I had six months after all before the ship was leaving for home and needed to fill my time with something... [for Armando]

#port #fiction

[emmatrustsno-one]

Food (and class) in Harry Potter A (lengthy) guide for fans who aren’t British

After another user asked me some questions about British food as it appears in Harry Potter I decided to make a post about it, as no doubt other foreign readers have similar questions. I will talk about EVERYTHING so sorry if you have to scroll through loads of stuff you know to find what you want, but I have written it to be accessible to literally anyone and I don’t want to assume people know what something is just because I do.

Also, it was impossible to make the post without referencing class. The fact that it was impossible only goes to show how it’s probably impossible to understand the books in depth without an understanding of class in Britain. The whole texts are encoded with references to class which are so subtle (much like class itself) that even I, who grew up being encoded in the same way, had to analyse the texts to find them. At some point I’ll make a post about just class, but for now we’ll stick to the light-hearted topic of food!

Foods eaten at Hogwarts:

Main courses:

Probably to give a subtle wave to the fact that Hogwarts is the magical version of a public school, nearly all the food consumed there is traditional and British. A public school here is NOT a state-maintained school, it is a private, extremely expensive, prestigious, boarding school, e.g Eton, which only the children of people with a lot of money and a lot of influence attend. By default, these people are usually upper class or aristocracy. (Obviously in the wizarding world money isn’t a factor in school attendance, but nevertheless that is what Hogwarts is modelled on.) There is never any mention of processed foods at Hogwarts except chips and a few common desserts. Here is a list, with explanation, of foods mentioned there:

stew/casserole (meat and vegetables cooked together with stock for several hours)

roast beef and chicken (the two most commonly eaten meats here, I would say)

pork/lamb chops (cuts of those meats with a bit of bone through the top)

sausage (usually made with pig meat in the UK)

bacon (here it is larger and softer than in many countries)

steak (a cut of beef, usually expensive)

boiled (in water until soft, no skins), roast (in the oven until brown, no skins) and mashed (boiled and puréed, no skins) potatoes

chips (not crisps, of course, but rather fat French fries)

Yorkshire pudding (pancake batter which is cooked in a muffin pan in the oven until risen and crispy; originated from the county of Yorkshire and usually served with roast beef)

PLEASE NOTE THAT ‘PUDDING’ IS NOT NECESSARILY SWEET, NOR A MOUSSE-LIKE SAUCE THING. I MADE A BLOG POST LAST WEEK ABOUT ‘PUDDING’.

peas (usually small and taken out of the pod, a bit like petit pois, – garden peas; occasionally larger and softer – marrowfat peas; sometimes mashed up into a purée – mushy peas, which are usually served with chips)

carrots (peeled and either boiled or roasted)

gravy (like meat jus, but nowadays normally made from a flavoured powder that you add water to and stir. It’s brown and fairly thick)

ketchup (this one annoys me because no-one I know says ketchup – it’s tomato sauce, at least in the north)

sprouts (brussels sprouts )

steak and kidney pie (pastry filled with steak and kidney in a gravy)

PLEASE NOTE THAT PIE IS USUALLY SAVOURY HERE. We do have fruit pies, but if someone says ‘pie’ a British person will picture a savoury thing, probably with meat in it.

steak and kidney pudding (steak and kidney in gravy encased in suet pastry, which is a crumbly, soft pastry made from just suet, flour and water. It is steamed, not baked, usually)

sausage rolls (a staple of British lunchtime foods – sausagemeat wrapped in a flaky pastry and eaten hot or cold)

jacket potato (also called a baked potato, it’s a whole potato baked in the oven with the skin still on until it’s crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, and is usually served with cheese in it)

porridge (oats cooked in milk or water, often called oatmeal in other countries)

marmalade (jam made from citrus fruits, usually orange)

PLEASE NOT THAT JAM IS NON-CITRUS FRUIT AND SUGAR COOKED UNTIL IT SETS INTO A SPREAD.

Desserts:

jam tart (a small, open pastry case with jam in it)

ice cream (the most common flavours here are vanilla, chocolate and strawberry)

apple pie (pastry case with sweetened apples)

treacle tart (pastry case with a sweet, thin filling made from golden syrup and breadcrumbs, not treacle)

éclairs (popular French cream cake – long choux bun filled with cream and topped with chocolate)

jam doughnuts (dough fried in oil and filled with jam, most often strawberry)

jelly (called jell-o in some countries – flavoured gelatine)

NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH JAM – AMERICANS CALL JAM JELLY.

rice pudding (short grain rice cooked for several hours in milk and sugar until it forms a thick mixture not unlike sweet porridge)

custard tart (pastry case filled with an egg, milk and sugar mixture which has been baked until set)

spotted dick (steamed suet pudding, which is like a warm sponge cake, filled with raisins and served with custard)

chocolate gateau (fancy chocolate cake with cream on top)

trifle (layered fruit, jelly, sponge cake, custard and cream – a classic)

mint humbugs (a hard mint to freshen your breath after eating)

At Christmas:

roast turkey (the meat we traditionally eat at Christmas)

chipolatas (tiny pork sausages)

buttered peas (just peas with a bit of butter on the them)

cranberry sauce (cranberries and sugar cooked together until set – served with savoury foods like turkey – it’s not as sweet as jam)

turkey sandwiches (literally the entire country eats this on Christmas night to use up some turkey)

Christmas cake (very rich, dense fruit cake topped with a layer of marzipan and then a layer of icing)

Christmas pudding (hot, very rich steamed pudding made from dried fruits, nuts and suet, often served with brandy sauce)

crumpets (these aren’t a Christmas food, they just happen to eat them at Christmas. They are round, flat buns, though not exactly bread, with holes in them, that you toast and butter. Often people eat them for breakfast, or, like in the book, as a snack at night. They are savoury, not sweet)

mince pies (small pies filled with a mixture of dried fruits, sugar and brandy – sweet, not savoury – they were made with minced meat a few hundred years ago, and the name mince pie has stuck)

fudge (a type of sweet made by heating sugar, butter and milk until it sets)

During the Triwizard Tournament:

bouillabaisse (French fish stew/soup that hardly anyone here has heard of/would try!)

goulash (Eastern European stew made with meat and paprika that a lot of people have at least heard of and would try!)

blancmange (French dessert which is a basically white, almond-flavoured jelly that some people have heard of and a few would try)

It’s necessary to mention here, how the fact that Hermione knows what the bouillabaisse is and has tried it is a DEFINITE indicator of class. She is upper middle class. I’ll talk more about why when I do a class post, but for now it’s enough to say that no working-class child, unless they have family ties to France or have learned about it in French at school, would even know what it was and would be very unlikely to try it if given the opportunity. You can’t read that scene, as a British person, and not understand that Hermione comes from a cultured, moneyed background.

It’s also interesting to compare these foods with the foods usually served at state-maintained schools at the time HP was written: we are talking about fatty, greasy, processed rubbish with no nutrition at all, e.g. turkey twizzlers, nuggets, pizza, chips, hot dogs, cakes. You do still find such foods in state schools but normally alongside more healthy options. Since Jamie Oliver’s war on school food things are a lot better, but the point is that the food at Hogwarts is a clear nod to the privilege of the pupils: working-class kids wouldn’t have been able to eat things like that at school. My primary school (ages 4-11) served stew sometimes, with overcooked vegetables, but that’s all, and my secondary school served pizza, hot dogs, nuggets and chips every day and that was it.

Foods mentioned but not eaten in the Great Hall:

sherbet lemons (real sweets, they are strong, lemon-flavoured hard sweets that contain a powder that makes your tongue fizz)

custard creams (biscuits made from 2 square simple biscuits with vanilla cream sandwiched between them)

Foods eaten at the Weasleys’:

Food is one of the main ways by which the Weasleys are coded as working-class. Everything they eat is either a comfort food your grandma makes or some cheap thing you eat and don’t mind but wish was something else.

corned beef sandwiches (corned beef is beef which has been processed and salt-cured and has the mushy consistency of cat food. It was popular during the war, when meat was scarce and rationed, and is associated with poverty and lack of better meat. That isn’t to say that people don’t like it, but it is true that many people don’t)

Speaking of processed meats, the Weasleys eat a lot of sausage and bacon, which are very popular but also available cheaply.

chicken and ham pie (this is the only time I can think of that it is mentioned that the Weasleys were having a ‘proper’ meat, as in unprocessed, and if I remember correctly it was for Harry’s birthday, so a special occasion. It’s pastry filled with chicken and ham in a white sauce and is the sort of thing your grandma probably made)

boiled potatoes (they do have boiled potatoes at Hogwarts, but alongside other types of potato.)

It’s hard for me to explain why, but boiled potatoes, specifically, have a working-class connotation. You are definitely more likely to eat boiled potatoes in a working-class family. Here are 2 anecdotes form my life about boiled potatoes to illustrate my point!

1. I know someone from a privileged background. Her father was an electrical engineer who held government contracts. She went to a grammar school (a school that’s free but you have to pass a test to go to) and lived in an affluent city where one of the main public schools is. As soon as she opens her mouth you can hear that she’s from an upper middle-class background. I once discussed cooking dinner with her and said I was making boiled potatoes. She scoffed and said she never did as she couldn’t see the point – if she has boiled them she might as well mash them.

2. At university my friend started going out with a guy from a solid middle-class background. His parents had a second home in South Africa, where his father worked for part of the year. They were staunch Tories (supported the political party to the right of the centre). She and I once discussed making dinner and she said it was her turn to make it tonight and the guy wanted sautéed potatoes. Her exact words next were “he’ll just have to make do with boiled, I’m too tired”.

Somehow the fact that the Weasleys eat boiled potatoes makes them working-class, an under-class. It’s somehow seen as lazy and simple by people from higher classes.

rhubarb crumble (stewed rhubarb topped with a flour, butter and sugar mixture that goes hard and crumbly, usually served with custard)

Again, this is a working-class mainstay. Many people used to grow rhubarb in their gardens because it grows easily and is hardy in our weather. Add a bit of sugar and it’s an almost free dessert.

chocolate pudding (not to be confused with chocolate pudding in American terms, ours is a suet pudding made with chocolate and served hot, usually with a chocolate sauce)

Foods eaten with the Dursleys:

a bun from the bakers (could be either a sandwich made from a bread roll or a sweet bun such as an iced bread roll, without more info it’s not clear. The word ‘bun’ is used to describe many things, and it’s different depending on where you are in the country. For example, I would never say ‘bun’ and mean sandwich but I know some people do. I personally picture an iced bun).

knickerbocker glory (an ice cream sundae)

fruit cake (dense cake made with dried fruits, like a dressed down version of Christmas cake, seems quite old-fashioned now)

roast pork (a joint of pork roast in the oven, often with a layer of fat over it that goes crispy)

soup (a common starter)

salmon (usually a whole fish, baked or poached)

lemon meringue pie (the French dessert anglicised – a pastry case filled with a layer of set lemon cream and topped with meringue)

grapefruit

I want to pause at this point to point out how clear it is that the Dursleys are higher class than the Weasleys. For one, Uncle Vernon just buys whatever he fancies from the bakers for lunch but Ron (and presumably the whole family) are given sandwiches made by Mrs Weasley, containing what they can afford. Secondly, roast pork and salmon are expensive and only eaten by people with more than the basic amount of money and even then really only on special occasions. Sometimes people will have a salmon on the buffet at their wedding, for instance. It’s a far cry from processed meats and chicken and ham pie. Not least because you can make a decent pie out of even poor quality meat, but to make a good roast, especially if you are trying to impress your boss, you need a good quality joint. Thirdly, if on a diet it’s unlikely someone working-class would eat grapefruit for breakfast. I know working-class kids who wouldn’t even be able to identify a grapefruit. Moreover, the fact that they served the meal to Vernon’s boss in three courses, followed by after-dinner mints shows that they either are middle-class, or, more likely, trying to appear so. The Weasleys just have their main course and pudding, even on special occasions. I don’t think I’ve ever had a starter in my life except for in restaurants. Furthermore, at the zoo Dudley and Piers get ice creams and Harry gets a lemon ice lolly. I don’t think there is any more striking a symbol of a working-class person in the 90s trying to treat themselves than cheap lemon ice lollies! All ice cream stands had one and it was always the cheapest thing. By doing this, Vernon is showing that he views Harry as a lesser-class than himself and Dudley. Lastly, while Petunia is preparing the meal for Vernon’s boss, Harry is given bread and cheese for his supper. Bread and cheese conjures up images of Scrooge sitting in the dark eating alone because it was so cheap: Victorian levels of poverty and definite allusions to being a lesser-class.

On a side note, the Dursleys still got their milk and eggs from the milkman, a man from a dairy who delivered to people’s houses in the mornings. In those days lots of people still did, and you do still get milkmen now to a lesser degree. My grandparents got their milk from the milkman and so did my husband’s parents, up until at least 2000.

whipped cream and sugared violets (I had to look up sugared violets myself. I think I am probably too working-class, or possibly too northern, to have heard of them. They seem to be the head of the violet flower dipped in egg white and sugar so that it becomes hard. I have never heard of putting them in cream to make a pudding before.)

Additional foods relating to Hagrid:

birthday cake (usually sponge and covered in icing. In Britain, unlike many countries, you do not buy your own birthday cake: your parents usually get one for you)

rock cakes (these are real, though I grew up calling them rock buns. They are a basically a blob of cake cake batter with currants in, baked for a short time. They are like a cross between muffins and cookies)

treacle toffee (hard black toffee, often eaten around bonfire night)

stoat sandwiches (as far as I am concerned these are not real! I have never heard of anyone eating that! A stoat is small animal like a weasel)

Foods sold by magical establishments, e.g. Honeydukes/the Hogwarts Express:

these foods don’t exist outside HP, but could theoretically be made –

pumpkin juice

pumpkin pasties (a pasty is like a pie but the pastry is filled and then folded over, not topped with a lid)

chocoballs filled with strawberry mousse and clotted cream (clotted cream is thick, rich cream that has thickened naturally, not by whipping)

mulled mead (you can get mead, though it’s not common, and mulled just means it’s cooked through with various spices)

cherry syrup with soda (to us, soda is carbonated water, not pop)

these foods aren’t real but are based on real ones –

Drooble’s best blowing gum (wizard bubble gum)

liquorice wands (you can get sticks of liquorice

fizzing whizzbees (imo based on a sweet called a flying saucer, which is a     thin, rice paper-like shell shaped like a flying saucer and filled with sherbet

exploding bonbons (bonbons here are round and soft, sometimes with a powdery centre, which break apart easily and fill your mouth

these foods are real –

peppermint creams (icing sugar mixed with peppermint oil until soft but firm, often coated in chocolate        

mars bars (chocolate coated nougat-cream and caramel)

these foods aren’t real and aren’t really based on anything, as far as I can tell –

                                                  butterbeer

                                                  gillywater

                                                  sugar quills

                                                  ice mice

                                                  cockroach cluster

                                                  blood pops

                                                  toothflossing stringmints

                                                  pepper imps

                                                  cauldron cakes

these foods weren’t real before HP but now exist as part of the HP merchandise –

Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans (they are like jelly beans)

Chocolate frogs

Two final things. Firstly, on the topic of class it is worth noting that Lupin felt he had to apologise for only having teabags. Literally nobody who is working-class drinks tea in any other form than teabags 99.9% of the time. You can get loose leaf tea, which is seen as fancy, nicer and is certainly more expensive. I got some for Christmas last year, for instance. Nobody working-class would ever even bat an eyelid at someone offering them tea in bag form. It’s totally normal. The fact that Lupin apologises shows that he is acutely aware that he is more lowly than the average Hogwarts teacher. He is embarrassed by something that most of the population find normal. He feels under them, in class terms. Even though he knows Harry grew up without privilege (though the Dursleys themselves are middle-class), now that Harry is part of Hogwarts he has ascended enough in class terms that Lupin is concerned he will disappointed to have tea from a bag. This goes some way to showing how class isn’t just about money: it’s about tastes and habits.

Secondly, in compiling this post it became really clear that sausages are a leitmotiv marking times when Harry feels cosy, familial and homey. The first thing Hagrid does is cook him sausages, which represent being lifted out of the world of cold and hunger he is living in; becoming someone who others care about and want to care for. When he is rescued to the Weasleys in CoS and is blown away by the wizarding house and starts to feel at home and safe, the first thing Molly does is feed him loads of sausages. Sausages are often mentioned at breakfast at Hogwarts, especially when Harry is in a good mood. Perhaps it was unconscious and JKR herself associates sausages with feelings of family and at home-ness.

One final thing and that’s it, I promise. While writing this it struck me how different what I mean when I say “privilege” is from what an American means when they say it. I have mentioned this before, and at some point will do a blog post about it, but race is bound up so intricately with American history and life that words like “privilege” are encoded with images of skin colour. I bet the average American read “privilege” and pictured a white person, but in the UK that wouldn’t be the case. Skin colour has nothing to do with it. Here, “privilege” means what you have access to, how valid other people see your tastes and way of life, what you have grown up doing, seeing, eating, hearing, believing. It is bound up inexorably with how much money you have, what you do for a living and where you live and, crucially, with your family’s status historically. That one thing is the reason that comparisons between death eaters and Nazis don’t really hold up: HP is about genealogy and not ideology.

#Harry Potter #british food #british class system #snapedom

[abadpoetwithdreams]

The Alphabet Game

Rules: answer the questions in a new post and tag 10 blogs you would like to get to know better. (I’m not going to tag anyone because I am sleepy and jet lagged and don’t feel like it, but if you want to play, then go for it! Also I usually don’t do these tag games because I am the worst and it’s hard to fill them out on mobile lol but hey I’m on vacation so I have time for this one ^_^)

tagged by: @wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey :D

a - age: 26 b - birthplace: Fredericksburg, VA c - current time: Guys, I just flew from Okinawa to Hawaii, so I have literally no idea right now. My mind says it’s like midday but the dark out the window says it’s 9pm. d - drink you last had: water. It is important to stay overhydrated in Hawaii, because if you ever notice you are dehydrated it’s too late and the humidity and heat will eat you. e - easiest person to talk to: mom, various siblings, various friends (special shoutout to @ewokshootsfirst of course!!) f - favorite song: UMMMMM I have no single fave but hey I found out the Scarlet Heart Ryeo soundtrack is on iTunes yesterday so I bought a couple of my favourite tracks and WHY IS NIRVANA IN FIRE NOT ON ITUNES TOO ok anyway back on topic–I really like Monster Lead Me Home lately, and All the King’s Horses, and I’m always in the mood for Mordred’s Lullaby or most Poets of the Fall songs. While on vacay I listened to a lot of World Order for kicks, so special mention of the moment goes to Nice Day, lol I love that song. g - grossest memory: um I can’t think of anything right now but I really badly sprained my ankle when I landed a jump wrong one time while performing at a dance show, so the memory of the way my ankle buckling felt still skeeves me out ten years later gross gross gross h - horror yes or horror no: as a rule, horror no, but there are exceptions–Pan’s Labyrinth has horror elements for example and it’s one of my favourite things on the planet, and I like some ghost story kinds of horror; I just hate gratuitous gore kind of horror, the dumb ick factor stuff that’s 99% of what people mean when they talk about horror film. That doesn’t scare me, it just makes me grumpy, lol. So I like psychological/creative use of horror I guess. i - in love?: with Nirvana in Fire and Irish dance and good Silm meta heyyyyyy j - jealous of people?: sometimes l - love at first sight or should I walk by again?: dunno m - middle name: i have three, none of which are English n - number of siblings: I am the oldest of eight! o - one wish: WQ this Oireachtas p - person you called last: my littlest sister, to wish her a happy birthday since I’m still on travel and had to miss being there in person this year q - question you are always asked: “so who pays you to compete/who sponsors you at Irish dance?“ HA. HA. HA. r - reason to smile: I just had one of the best weeks of my life in Okinawa, I can go get real genuine Hawaii shave ice tomorrow (SHIMAZU’S OR NOT AT ALL, NEVER SETTLE FOR ANYTHING LESS), I did really well at my last dance comp even though I bombed my first round, I can’t wait to give my siblings all the gifts I got them in Japan, and I’m back in the US so I can finally get back to watching NiF again yayyyyyy s - An Okinawan drinking song LOLOLOL t - time you woke up: Again, this is impossible to answer because I’ve had to live this day twice due to time difference in travel between Okinawa and HI. I woke up at five am in Okinawa on the 11th, if that counts u - underwear colour: … secret? v - vacation destination: Hobbiton! Oxford! Okinawa again! I’d love to visit South Korea but I’m too chicken! Most places in Europe! Ireland again! Scotland! It’s funny but I never think of going to Oahu as a vacation, I guess because I have family here and I used to live here? Oh well. I’ve never visited the other islands tho and I want to. w - worst habit: Procrastination and self-doubt for surrrre. x - x-rays: Um, if this is asking if I have had X-rays, then yeah? Of my toe and ankles at various times lol Irish dance life. y - your favorite food: too much to list. My favourite foods I make though are probably my spaghetti recipe, chi chi dango, chocolate chip cookies, stovetop fried tofu, banana bread, vegetable lentil soup, and balsamic chicken. z - zodiac sign: I’m a Pisces I think but I don’t really care so could be wrong lol

#wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey #badpoet memes

[applecut3-blog]

Easy does it: seven simple new Yotam Ottolenghi recipes

One person’s idea of cooking simply is the next person’s culinary nightmare. For me, it’s about being able to stop at my greengrocer on the way home, pick up a couple of things that look good and make something within 20 or 30 minutes of getting in. My husband, Karl, on the other hand, has a completely different idea. If we’re having friends over at the weekend, he’ll want to spend a good amount of time prepping and cooking as much as he can beforehand, so that very little needs to be done when our guests are here.

There are other approaches, too. Esme, who tests my recipes, prefers to be in the garden at weekends. Her idea of simple cooking is to put something in the oven on a Saturday morning and leave it simmering away, ready to be eaten four or five hours later. My colleague Tara, on the other hand, can’t relax without knowing that a meal is ready a full day before it’s due to be eaten: sauces are in the fridge, stews in the freezer, vegetables are blanched or roasted and ready.

Cooking, for me, has always been about abundance, bounty, freshness and surprise

Whatever our take, it all looks effortless and easy when friends and family come to eat in our respective kitchens. But that’s only because we’ve worked out what makes cooking simple, relaxing and fun for us. This idea, then – that there’s more than one way to get a meal on the table – is what my new book Ottolenghi Simple is all about.

And, no, it’s not a contradiction in terms. I know: I’ve seen the raised eyebrows, I’ve heard the jokes. The one about the reader who thought there was part of a recipe missing because they had all the ingredients in their cupboard. Or the one about “just popping out to the local shop to buy the papers, milk, black garlic and sumac”.

I hold up my hands, absolutely. There have been lists to make and ingredients to find, but, truthfully, there’s not a recipe to my name that I feel sheepish about. Cooking, for me, has always been about abundance, bounty, freshness and surprise. Four big words to expect from a plate of food, so a single sprig of parsley was never going to cut the mustard. That’s the reason I’m so excited about these recipes: they’re still distinctly “Ottolenghi”, but simple in at least one way – and very often more than one.

Iranian herb fritters

Iranian herb fritters. Photograph: Jonathan Lovekin. Prop styling: Wei Tang

These can be snacked on at room temperature, or served with a green tahini sauce and some extra herbs. To make the tahini sauce, just blitz together 50g tahini, 30g parsley, half a crushed garlic clove, two tablespoons of lemon juice and an eighth of a teaspoon of salt in a blender, adding 125ml water at the end. (Holding back on the water allows the parsley to get really broken up, and turns the sauce as green as can be.) This is lovely spooned over grilled meat, fish and roast vegetables, so double or triple the batch: it will be fine in the fridge for up to five days. You might need to thin it with a little water or lemon juice.

These fritters are a bit of a fridge raid, using whatever herbs you have to hand. As long as you keep the total net weight the same and use a mixture, they’ll work wonderfully. The batter will keep, uncooked, for a day in the fridge.

Alternatively, pile the fritters into pitta bread with yoghurt, chilli sauce, pickled vegetables and tahini. If you go down that route, you’ll just need one fritter per person. The recipe makes eight fritters to serve four to eight.

40g dill, finely chopped 40g basil leaves, finely chopped 40g coriander leaves, finely chopped 1½ tsp ground cumin 50g fresh breadcrumbs (ie, from about 2 slices, crusts left on if soft) 3 tbsp barberries (or currants) 25g walnut halves, lightly toasted and roughly chopped 8 large eggs, beaten Salt 60ml sunflower oil, for frying

Put everything bar the oil in a large bowl with half a teaspoon of salt, mix well and set aside.

Put two tablespoons of oil in a large, nonstick pan on a medium-high heat. Once hot, add a ladle of batter per fritter into the oil, cooking a few fritters at a time – you want each of them to be about 12cm wide. Fry for one to two minutes on each side, until crisp and golden brown, then transfer to a plate lined with kitchen paper and set aside while you repeat with the remaining batter and oil.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

Chickpeas and swiss chard with yoghurt

Chickpeas and swiss chard with yoghurt. Photograph: Jonathan Lovekin

Comfort food at its best, especially when served with steamed rice. Don’t worry if you don’t have coriander: it’s a nice little garnish, but the dish holds its own perfectly without. Make this up to six hours ahead, if you like, up to the point before you add the lemon juice and yoghurt. Assemble just before serving and serve at room temperature or just warmed through. Serves two.

2 carrots, peeled and chopped into 2cm pieces 45ml olive oil, plus extra to serve Salt and black pepper 1 large onion, peeled and finely chopped 1 tsp caraway seeds 1½ tsp ground cumin 200g swiss chard leaves, cut into 1cm-thick strips 1 x 400g tin chickpeas, drained and rinsed (230g drained weight) 1 lemon – juice half of it, to get 1 tbsp, and cut the other half into 2 wedges, to serve 70g Greek-style yoghurt 5g coriander leaves (about 1¼ tbsp), roughly chopped

Heat the oven to 220C/425F/gas 7. Mix the carrots with a tablespoon of oil, a quarter-teaspoon of salt and a grind of pepper. Spread out on an oven tray lined with baking paper and roast for 20 minutes: they should still be a little crunchy.

Put the remaining two tablespoons of oil in a large frying pan on a medium heat, then fry the onion, caraway and cumin for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until golden brown. Stir in the chard, carrots, chickpeas, 75ml water, half a teaspoon of salt and a good grind of pepper, and cook for five minutes, until the chard is soft and hardly any liquid is left in the pan.

Turn off the heat, stir through the lemon juice, and serve with a generous spoonful of yoghurt, a sprinkle of coriander, a drizzle of oil and a wedge of lemon.

Whole roast celeriac with coriander-seed oil

Whole roast celeriac with coriander-seed oil. Photograph: Jonathan Lovekin

I’ve managed to achieve the seemingly impossible here, of taking a recipe from my Nopi cookbook and making it more complicated – by adding one more twist in the form of coriander seeds. I like to eat this as a starter, cut into wedges and served with a squeeze of lemon or a dollop of creme fraiche, but you can serve it as a side to a pork chop or steak. Serves four.

1 large celeriac, hairy roots discarded (no need to trim or peel), scrubbed clean (1.2kg net weight) 50ml olive oil, plus a little extra to drizzle 1½ tsp coriander seeds, lightly crushed Flaked sea salt 1 lemon, cut into wedges, to serve

Heat the oven to 190C/375F/gas 5. Pierce the celeriac all over with a small sharp knife, about 20 times in total, then put it in a baking dish and rub generously with the oil, coriander seeds and two teaspoons of flaked salt. Roast for two and a half to three hours, basting every 30 minutes, until the celeriac is soft all the way through and golden brown on the outside.

Cut into wedges and serve with a wedge of lemon, a sprinkle of salt and a drizzle of oil.

Orzo with prawns, tomato and marinated feta

Orzo with prawns, tomato and marinated feta. Photograph: Louise Hagger/The Guardian. Food styling: Emily Kydd. Prop styling: Jennifer Kay. Food assistant: Katy Gilhooly.

I return to this time and again, for easy, one-pot suppers. Orzo is the little pasta in the shape of rice – easy to eat a lot of and widely available. If you start with prawns in their shells, keep a few heads on, just for the look. The marinated feta is lovely dotted over salads, so I tend to make a batch – it keeps in the fridge for up to a week. Serves four.

200g feta, broken into 1-2cm pieces ½ tsp chilli flakes 4 tsp fennel seeds, toasted and lightly crushed 75ml olive oil 250g orzo Salt and black pepper 3 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed 3 strips finely shaved orange peel 1 x 400g tin chopped tomatoes 500ml vegetable stock 400g raw shelled prawns 30g basil leaves, roughly shredded

In a medium bowl, mix the feta with a quarter-teaspoon of the chilli flakes, two teaspoons of the fennel seeds and a tablespoon of oil. Set aside while you cook the orzo.

Put a large saute pan for which you have a lid on a medium-high heat. Add two tablespoons of oil, the orzo, an eighth of a teaspoon of salt and a good grind of pepper. Fry for three to four minutes, stirring frequently, until golden brown, then remove from the pan and set aside.

Return the pan to the same heat and add the remaining two tablespoons of oil, a quarter-teaspoon of chilli flakes, two teaspoons of fennel seeds, the garlic and the orange peel. Fry for a minute, until the garlic starts to brown lightly, then add the tomatoes, stock, 200ml water, three-quarters of a teaspoon of salt and plenty of pepper. Cook for two to three minutes, or until boiling, then stir in the fried orzo. Cover, then lower the heat to medium low and leave to simmer for 15 minutes, stirring once or twice, until the orzo is cooked. Remove the lid and cook for one to two minutes more, until the consistency is like a risotto. Stir in the prawns for two to three minutes, until they turn pink and are cooked. Stir in the basil and serve at once with the marinated feta sprinkled on top.

Beef sirloin and basil salad

This works as an impressive starter, as a lunch or light supper. All the elements can be prepared a day in advance and kept in the fridge; just don’t put the dish together until you’re about to serve. Serves four.

50g basil leaves 1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed 135ml olive oil Salt and black pepper 2 x 200g beef sirloin steaks, each about 1.5cm thick 2 pitta breads, roughly torn into 3cm pieces 2 red chicory, leaves separated, then cut in half lengthways on the diagonal 40g rocket 3 tbsp lemon juice 60g parmesan, shaved

Photograph: Jay Brooks/The Guardian. Grooming: Dani Richardson at the Milton Agency using Chantecaille.

Put half the basil in the small bowl of a food processor with the garlic, 75ml oil and three teaspoons of salt, and blitz to make a thick dressing.

Season the beef well with a quarter-teaspoon of salt and a generous grind of black pepper. Pour a tablespoon of oil into a medium frying pan and put on a high heat. When the pan is very hot, sear the beef for three to four minutes (for medium-rare), turning once halfway through. Remove from the pan and leave to rest for 10 minutes.

Add the remaining three tablespoons of oil to the same pan and place on a high heat. When hot, add the pitta pieces and fry for two to three minutes in all, shaking the pan from time to time, until golden and crisp all over. Transfer to a plate lined with kitchen towel and sprinkle with a pinch of salt.

Put the chicory, rocket, lemon juice, parmesan, basil oil and remaining basil leaves in a large serving bowl.

To serve, cut the beef against the grain into ½cm-thick slices. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt and add to the salad bowl. Add the pitta pieces, toss gently and serve at once.

Bridget Jones’s pan-fried salmon with pine-nut salsa

Bridget Jones’s pan-fried salmon with pine-nut salsa. Photograph: Jonathan Lovekin. Prop styling: Wei Tang

This is the dish Patrick Dempsey’s character tells Renée Zellweger’s Bridget Jones that he would have brought her on their imaginary second date in Bridget Jones’s Baby. “From Ottolenghi,” Dempsey says, “delicious and healthy!” And easy, we might add. What sounded like a bit of product placement on our part was in fact no such thing: the recipe didn’t even exist on our menu, so this is a retrospective acknowledgement. Serves four.

100g currants 4 salmon fillets, skin on and pin-boned 100ml olive oil Salt and black pepper 4 celery sticks, cut into 1cm dice, leaves removed but reserved to garnish 30g pine nuts, roughly chopped 40g capers, plus 2 tbsp of their brine 40g large green olives (about 8 in total), pitted and cut into 1cm dice 1 good pinch saffron threads (¼ tsp), mixed with 1 tbsp hot water 20g parsley leaves, roughly chopped 1 lemon – zest finely grated, to get 1 tsp, then juiced, to get 1 tsp

Cover the currants with boiling water and leave to soak for 20 minutes while you prep the salmon and make the salsa.

Mix the salmon with two teaspoons of oil, a third of a teaspoon of salt and a good grind of pepper.

Put 75ml olive oil in a large saute pan and place on a high heat. Add the celery and pine nuts, and fry for four to five minutes, stirring frequently, until the nuts begin to brown (don’t take your eyes off them, because they burn easily). Take the pan off the heat and stir in the capers and their brine, the olives, saffron and its water, and a pinch of salt. Drain the currants and add these with the parsley, lemon zest and lemon juice.

Put the remaining tablespoon of oil in a large frying pan and place on a medium-high heat. Once hot, lay in the salmon fillets skin side down and fry for three minutes, until the skin is crisp. Turn down the heat to medium, flip over the fillets and fry for two to four minutes more (timings will depend on how much you like the salmon cooked), then remove from the pan.

Arrange the cooked salmon on four plates and spoon over the salsa. If you have any, scatter the reserved celery leaves on top, and serve.

Nutella, sesame and hazelnut rolls

Nutella, sesame and hazelnut rolls. Photograph: Jonathan Lovekin. Prop styling: Wei Tang

Two assumptions here. One is that everyone has a jar of Nutella somewhere, and second that making your own dough and rolling it up into all sorts of deliciousness is easier than it looks. The result is somewhere between a cake and a biscuit, best enjoyed as a treat with a cup of tea or coffee. The dough is delicate, so it’s important you soften the Nutella until it’s nearly runny before spreading it. These are inspired by a similar pastry served at Landwer Cafe in Tel Aviv. Makes 10 rolls.

150g strong white bread flour, plus a little extra for dusting¾ tsp fast-action dried yeast1½ tsp caster sugar 3 tbsp olive oil, plus a little extra for greasing¼ tsp salt65ml lukewarm water 40g blanched hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped20g sesame seeds, lightly toasted150g Nutella, softened (in the microwave or gently on the stove, until easily spreadable)1 small orange – zest finely grated, to get 1 tsp2 tsp icing sugar

Put the flour, yeast, sugar, two tablespoons of oil and the salt in a large bowl and mix to combine. Gently pour in the water, then, using a spatula, bring the mixture together until combined into a dough. Transfer to a lightly oiled surface and, with lightly oiled hands, knead the dough for three minutes, until soft and elastic. (You may need to add a little more oil if it starts to stick to the surface or your hands.) Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a clean, damp tea towel and leave to rise in a warm place for 40 minutes, until nearly doubled in size.

Heat the oven to 240C/465F/gas 9. Combine the hazelnuts and sesame seeds in a small bowl and set aside one tablespoon of the mix.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough into a 40cm x 30cm rectangle, so that the longest side is towards you and parallel to the work surface. Using a spatula, spread the dough with the Nutella, leaving a 2cm border clear on the top edge. Sprinkle the orange zest evenly over the Nutella, then scatter over the sesame and hazelnut mix. With the longest side still towards you, roll the dough into a long sausage. Brush with the remaining tablespoon of oil, then sprinkle with the reserved tablespoon of sesame and hazelnuts (gently press these into the dough, so they stick). Trim the ends, cut the roll into 10 3cm-long segments and lay seam side down on an oven tray lined with baking paper.

Bake for about eight minutes, until golden brown, then dust with the icing sugar and leave to cool slightly before serving.

Fish sustainability varies by species, region and fishing or production method. For the best sources of salmon and prawns, check the Marine Conservation Society’s Good Fish Guide

Recipes taken from Ottolenghi Simple, published by Ebury Press at £25. To order a copy for £18, go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846.

• Commenting on this piece? If you would like your comment to be considered for inclusion on Weekend magazine’s letters page in print, please email [email protected], including your name and address (not for publication).

This article was edited on 4 September 2018, to correct the amount of salt used in the preparation of the salmon.

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/food/2018/sep/01/easy-does-it-seven-simple-yotam-ottolenghi-recipes

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Best of the Fest! What to Eat and Drink at the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival

Today is the very first day of the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival! Now through June 3, 2019, Epcot guests can enjoy gorgeous Disney-themed topiaries, specialty tours, extra family fun, and the Garden Rocks Concert Series, to name a few of the extra activities blooming all over the park in celebration of Spring.

But the main highlight for us are the Outdoor Kitchens — better known as Food Booths — serving enhanced food and beverage offerings with a focus on the fresh-from-the-garden flavors of Spring.

The 2019 Festival is underway!

Click here to see pictures of ALL THE FOOD at the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival!

An unprecedented 17 Outdoor Kitchens set the culinary scene this year — PLUS additional Festival offerings at various locations around the park. And our goal today is to bring you all of the items you CAN’T MISS when you visit the Epcot Flower and Garden Festival this year!

It’s the Best of the Fest for the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival!

Violet Blueberry Vanilla Croissant Donut from Taste Track

Hubba hubba! This thing is amazing! Sure, croissant donuts are pretty much always good. But this one — with the glaze-y sweetness, is truly delicious. Must-get.

Violet Blueberry Vanilla Croissant Doughnut

Mickey Tart Peanut Butter Mousse with Strawberry Jam and Boba Pearls at Flavor Full Kitchen

Let’s start at Flavor Full Kitchen with a Mickey-shaped treat — Mickey Tart Peanut Butter Mousse with Strawberry Jam and Boba Pearls. Although there’s a strong peanut butter and jelly flavor here, this one isn’t just for kids.

Mickey Tart

We found the mousse to have a great texture. More substantial and definitely not too light! But all taste testers thought they really didn’t need the Boba Balls as they gave a weird texture to this dessert.

Cookie Butter Worms and Dirt at Flavor Full Kitchen

Due to the LARGE serving, the Cookie Butter Worms and Dirt at Flavor Full Kitchen is great for sharing.

Cookie Butter Worms and Dirt

Across between a thick milkshake and a soft serve when it was served to us, this beverage has great flavor — not too, too sweet. Order this for the kids and take some tastes yourself!

Crispy Citrus Chicken with Orange Aïoli and Baby Greens at Citrus Blossom

A new booth this year, Citrus Blossom served up a winner with the Crispy Citrus Chicken with Orange Aïoli and Baby Greens!

Crispy Citrus Chicken

Great flavor combo!

Orange Cream Slushy in a Souvenir Orange Bird Sipper Cup or Orange Sunshine Wine Slushy at Citrus Blossom

Hit of the Festival! Whether you opt for the non-alcoholic Orange Cream or the over-21 Wine Slushy, expect to wait in long lines at Citrus Blossom for this popular beverage served in an ADORABLE Orange Bird cup.

Orange Blossom Wine Slushy in Orange Bird

Orange Blossom Wine Slushy

The non-alcoholic version in the cup is a HUGE serving so probably good to share. The alcoholic Orange Sunshine Wine Slushy is less cloying and has great flavor!

Coffee-rubbed Pork Poutine at Refreshment Port

At Refreshment Port, the Coffee-rubbed Pork Poutine has tons of savory flavor. No bland pulled pork here!

Coffee-rubbed Pork Poutine

You don’t taste a lot of coffee flavor, so non-coffee lovers shouldn’t worry. We loved the addition of the corn relish to give it even more flavor and texture.

Grilled Street Corn on the Cob with Savory Garlic Spread at Trowel and Trellis

New to the Festival, Trowel and Trellis was experiencing some first day jitters.

Grilled Street Corn

But once things settle in, the corn on the cob will be a guest favorite!

Bloomin’ Blueberry Lemon and Ginger Tea at Trowel and Trellis

While at Trowel and Trellis, get the Bloomin’ Blueberry Lemon and Ginger Tea!

Bloomin’ Blueberry Lemon and Ginger Tea

Featuring Twinings of London, this beverage is flavorful and refreshing.

Tlacoyo at Jardín de Fiestas

At Jardín de Fiestas, the Tlacoyo is a Blue Corn Masa topped with Black Bean Spread, Ground Chorizo, Queso Fresco, and Mexican Cream.

Tlacoyo: Blue Corn Masa topped with Black Bean Spread, Ground Chorizo, Queso Fresco and Mexican Cream

A delicious dish!

Tres Leches at Jardín de Fiestas

Don’t leave Jardín de Fiestas without ordering the Tres Leches.

Tres Leches

This Milk-soaked Sponge Cake topped with Cajeta Whipped Cream and Almond Powder is amazing!

Szechuan Spicy Red-braised Beef Shank over Rice at Lotus House

A visit to Lotus House should include the delcious Szechuan Spicy Red-braised Beef Shank.

Szechuan Spicy Red-braised Beef Shank over Rice

It’s a huge portion! Yes, it’s spicy, but not over the top.

Toasted Pretzel Bread at Bauernmarkt: Farmer’s Market

You know how we like our cheese! Once again, the Toasted Pretzel Bread topped with Black Forest Ham and Melted Gruyère Cheese at Bauernmarkt: Farmer’s Market is a standout!

Toasted Pretzel Bread with Black Forest Ham and Gruyere

Whether you are a returning guest or new to the Festival, you won’t want to miss this delicious item. Pretzel Bread, Ham, Cheese — that’s why!

Zeppole at Primavera Kitchen

Primavera Kitchen is a must-stop for Zeppole! These Ricotta Cheese Fritters are topped with Powdered Sugar, Raspberry Sauce, and a Chocolate-hazelnut Drizzle.

Zeppole

The amazing Zeppole can also be found at Via Napoli year-round!

Beef Brisket Burnt Ends and Smoked Pork Belly Slider with Garlic Sausage, Chorizo, Cheddar Fondue and House-made Pickle at Smokehouse: The Smokehouse: Barbecue and Brews

Returning this year, we have Beef Brisket Burnt Ends and Smoked Pork Belly Slider garnished with Garlic Sausage, Chorizo, Cheddar Fondue and a House-made Pickle. This dish makes a stop at The Smokehouse: Barbecue and Brews a must.

Beef Brisket Burnt Ends and Smoked Pork Belly Slider with Garlic Sausage, Chorizo, Cheddar Fondue and House-made Pickle

This killer slider incorporates everything that’s great about the burnt ends dish…AND ADDS PORK BELLY!

I love it. Even the bun. And that craziness on top? Super fun.

Chilled Soba Noodle Salad at Hanami

At Hanami, the Chilled Soba Noodle Salad is served with Pan-seared Tuna and Wasabi Dressing.

Chilled Soba Noodles with Tuna and Wasabi Dressing

This tasty dish has lots of flavor with great tuna!

Ichigo Sun Strawberry Lemonade Cocktail at Hanami

At Hanami, the Ichigo Sun Strawberry Lemonade Cocktail is made with Sake, Strawberry Purée, and Lemonade. Divine!

“Ichigo Sun” Strawberry Lemonade Cocktail with Sake, Strawberry Purée and Lemonade

We could drink this all day long!

Fried Cauliflower with Capers, Garlic Parsley, and Chili Ranch Sauce at Taste of Marrakesh

Next, we’re highlighting this returning favorite — Fried Cauliflower with Capers, Garlic Parsley, and Chili Ranch Sauce at Taste of Marrakesh.

Fried Cauliflower with Capers, Garlic, Parsley, and Chili Ranch Sauce

OK, so how to describe this… it’s that hard, crunchy breading that you find on chicken fingers sometimes? You know what I mean? It’s exactly what you want to have when you’re dipping in a spicy, remoulade-like sauce! This is a super great vegetarian dish — plus VITAMINS FROM VEGGIES! Win.

Local Wildflower Honey-mascarpone Cheesecake at The Honey Bee-Stro

At The Honey Bee-Stro we’re recommending the Local Wildflower Honey-mascarpone Cheesecake.

Local Wildflower Honey Mascarpone Cheesecake

It’s served with Orange Blossom Honey Ice Cream garnished with Fennel Pollen Meringue Kisses and Petite Lavender Shoots. Wow!

Frozen Desert Violet Lemonade at Pineapple Promenade

The gorgeous Frozen Desert Violet Lemonade at Pineapple Promenade is still pleasing Festival crowds!

Frozen Desert Violet Lemonade at Pineapple Promenade

Also, this beverage is delicious!

BEST of the FEST

All Items at Fleur de Lys

The outdoor kitchen — Fleur de Lys — is our pick for BEST of the FEST.

2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival – Fleur de Lys Food

Everything was delicious and this should be a must-do for your festival visit!

Honorable Mention

Farmhouse Meatball at Trowel and Trellis

Served with with Lentil Bread, Spinach, Marinated Vegetables, and Creamy Herb Dressing, the Farmhouse Meatball at Trowel and Trellis gets an honorable mention.

Farmhouse Meatball

We’ve had the IMPOSSIBLE meatball at both the Disney California Adventure Food and Wine Festival and this festival now and I can say that it is a nice, flavorful meat substitute. I like the meatballs more than the impossible patties I’ve had.

Instagram Winners

Chocolate Pudding Terrarium at Trowel and Trellis

While the Chocolate Pudding Terrarium at Trowel and Trellis is insta-worthy, it’s nothing special flavor-wise.

Chocolate Pudding Terrarium

But who doesn’t want to post a picture of a chocolate pudding terrarium?

Frozen Desert Violet Lemonade at Pineapple Promenade

The gorgeous Frozen Desert Violet Lemonade at Pineapple Promenade made our list again.

Violet Lemonade Minnie Ears

This item seems to be slipping in popularity now that Disney has a whole line of merchandise dedicated to this beverage (it’s getting passe now), but I’m still seeing it pop up in my Instagram feed, so there you go!

Souvenir Orange Bird Sipper Cup at Citrus Blossom

The Orange Bird cup makes a great souvenir from the Festival. You’ll find this super cute cup at Citrus Blossom.

Orange Blossom Wine Slushy in Orange Bird

Don’t say we didn’t warn you about the long lines here!

Chinese Cotton Candy at Lotus House

While at Lotus House get the Chinese Cotton Candy! Full Review here!!

Chinese Cotton Candy

It’s beautiful and impressive…what could possibly go wrong?

Click here to see pictures of ALL THE FOOD at the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival!

Ready to Plan for Your 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival Trip?

Order the DFB Guide to the 2019 Epcot Flower & Garden Festival e-Book today! This 200+-page guide to the Festival offers insider tips and advice as well as all of the details you need to know to plan your best Festival visit ever.

Your purchase includes several bonus items as well — including a full daily schedule of events at the Festival and a printable Outdoor Kitchens Booth Menu Checklist to carry with you as you Eat around the World!

Order your 2019 edition today! Don’t miss a moment of the fun!

Use code SPRING at check-out for a $2 off the cover price!

What would you most like to try at the 2019 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival? Please let us know with a comment!

Related posts:

First Look! Epcot Flower and Garden Festival Booth FOOD Pictures!

Best of the Fest: What to Eat at the 2016 Epcot Flower and Garden Festival

Best Drinks at the Epcot Flower and Garden Festival

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