#i will make great use of the kitchen for stew and curry and cake

[petermorwood]

Microwave Sponge Cake (eventually)

Long ago, @dduane and I had a Whirlpool combi microwave - micro, grill, fan oven - and It Was Great, big enough to use as a proper oven when what needed cooked in a proper oven was small enough that powering up the big proper oven in the cooker was a bit much.

Still with me...?

IIRC it was one of those Christmas presents where Mum, ever-practical, told us; "get yourselves something really useful but not too expensive (I did say practical!) and I'll go halves."

In 2016, after something like 15 years of pretty-well daily use for one thing and another, the old thing expired by stages, micro first, grill second, oven last - it made great bread up until the end - and went to recycling heaven.

*****

We couldn't find a one-for-one replacement (we needed a free-standing counter-top appliance, everyone was selling built-in), so until once was available (optimism) we bought an ordinary microwave.

NB, this and its successors were only used for ordinary microwave things like reheating, defrosting and dealing with freeze-cook stuff. They got nothing like the amount of use of the old combi, mostly because of being incapable of doing a lot of it. As things turned out, this didn't help much.

About eighteen months later, we had to buy another. If a microwave's enamel interior develops a crack (to this day I don't know how), moisture gets in, rust begins and the enamel pulls off the bare metal. That's when you get "sparking".

This demo is deliberate; believe me, when it's unexpected it's even worse.

A private welder show or lightning storm at the end of the kitchen counter when all you want is a hot cuppa is distinctly unsettling. Also, it's only going to get worse, and we could imagine - boy, could we - what "Much Worse" might look like.

To the recycle dump!

(NB, micros with stainless steel interiors don't seem to do this, probably because they're already tuned to deal with the bare metal.)

The replacement, another ordinary micro, Just Up And Died after eighteen months and, guess what, the quote for a check-up and replacements-if-required was as much as the price of a new one.

(Inkjet printers seem to operate on this principal too.)

To the recycle dump again!

We got a third new one (which BTW is still running just fine, because it's been downgraded to Extra, read on), totalled up what we'd spent on ordinary microwaves, said a few well-chosen words about planned obsolescence and the "Vimes 'Boots' Theory of Economic Inequality" and got ourselves a pre-pay credit card whose top-ups were dedicated to Get A Combi Again.

We didn't bother with GACA baseball caps.

That would have been silly.

I don't know if these cards exist in the USA; we treat them as the modern version of a piggy-bank...

...except that to get at the money you need two people acting in accord.

*****

And in 2021 we got one.

Okay, this next bit is going to read like an ad.

It isn't, because the appliance is discontinued. (Whirlpool FINALLY do something similar but not identical.) It's just enthusiastic users discovering there's even more to a gadget than expected.

*****

The New One even bigger than the old one, which had 28 litres capacity; the new one was 33 L (was .99 ft³, is now 1.16 ft³). In non-tech terms, wow, More Room To Cook In.

Reading the figures was no help (to me, anyway) in visualising what a maw the thing had, but opening the door did that and no mistake.

I said something to DD about "bite radius"...

...and she instantly responded with "anyway, we delivered the bomb".

We're a quotesy household. ;->

BTW, The New One does a very good job on seafood, too...

*****

Since we got this, almost exactly two years ago, we've used it from reheating tea to roasting meat to making chilli / goulash / stew / curry (you can run the oven / grill separately or add simultaneous zaps of microwave for much less cooking time) to baking bread.

One of the best things about it is that when the set cooking time is done, the appliance switches off automatically. No risk of busyness, absent-mindedness or out-in-the-garden-ness ending in clouds of smoke, ruined food and possibly even worse.

As for breadmaking, it has a dough-rise setting which is a Time Machine, reducing a two-hour "doubled in size" rise time to about 35-45 minutes...

It also has the most reliable Defrost Butter setting either of us have ever encountered, turning a rock-solid butter brick from the freezer into something spreadable while never - to date - doing the "never mind a butter-knife, give me a spoon or a paintbrush" thing.

*****

However...

There's also a "Chef Setting" where there are some simple recipes. Here's the pastry page.

Basically, you assemble and mix the ingredients, input the correct settings and the machine does all the timing, heating and cooking.

We'd never used this until yesterday, when DD said, "Let's try the sponge cake..."

Yes, this post was entitled "Microwave Sponge Cake (eventually)..." and here we are...

We did all the measuring correctly and checked it by pouring the mixture into a baking container while on the scale, wondering betimes why the recipe says 900g, the ingredients total 925 and what actually poured into the container reads 906... Weird. Really weird.

Then we put the container into the oven, entered the correct code, and let things do what they were going to do.

A little later we discovered something else about the recipe besides a weight anomaly.

It didn't mention the required size of the container. Or or how much the mixture was likely to rise.

It rose...

Let's say more than we expected...

The fluted ceramic container used for baking this one makes it look like a Vesuvius cupcake; not quite a pyroclastic flow, but a lot of flow regardless.

Once it cooled we separated the sponge-cake from the escaped sponge in the same way as sculptors work with wood or marble - "Chip away everything that doesn't look like a cake" - and found that despite its misshapen looks, it tasted pretty good.

So today DD made another, this time using a larger container.

...and this time it stayed put until removed using the cunning base-and-lifting-straps of baking parchment.

It's not the loftiest or best-risen sponge cake either of us have ever seen (a smaller-diameter higher-sided container would probably deal with that) BUT if there's something needing sponge cake in a hurry - this went from cupboard ingredients to done and cooling in less than 55 minutes - that treatment seems to fit the bill.

We're now wondering what other secrets lurk in the simple recipe pages; falafel, quiche Lorraine, stuffed peppers, even Flammkuchen* from scratch.

(*Though I have my own views about Flammkuchen, mostly involving a plane flight...)

And we'll be paying a lot more attention to what size of dish we put them in. :->

#food and drink #kitchen appliances #combi microwaves #sponge cake #anecdotage #GNU Terry Pratchett #Youtube

[deeisace]

well.

#im gonna see if the viewing i have on tuesday goes well #which i doubt tbh it's unfurnished and vaguely expensive #uhhh #then im gonna like. triple double check #if it's cool that i live with a bunch of my friends come july #they're gonna have to put up with my badly singing half remembered folk songs #buuut im sure it'll be find #fine #i will make great use of the kitchen for stew and curry and cake #for whoever wants stew and curry and cake #haha

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

I saw that you included the belly kink in that fic you wrote, loved it by the way. Can we get some more of that? Including stuffed kohga if you're into that?? The man loves eating, after all

You're asking for Sooga's fantasy, is what you're saying. You're asking for EVERY yiga's fantasy, essentially. Let's go

"Is everything ready?"

"Just about! Keep stalling!"

Mipha motioned for Sooga to get back into the dining hall. It was THE Master’s birthday today, and Sooga was running around this way and that to make sure it was perfect. The champions were here, the princess, and of course, every member of the clan. Mipha and Link were currently cooking in the kitchen, working on his cake, all while Kohga was being entertained in the dining hall. One of the blade master’s, conveniently enough, was a former performer, and was doing a rather good job at entertaining his master. It WAS rather impressive, though Sooga wished he didn't have to doge during the fire swallowing trick. Nearly singed his hair. Kohga clapped as the blade master bowed, totally entertained.

"Did you SEE that?! He just swallowed a fucking FLAMEBLADE!"

"Swallowing IS my forté, Master Kohga."

Sooga shot him a warning glance at that flirt, and it took so much of him NOT to beat his ass. He cleared his throat as he knelt down to the birthday boy.

"Are you having fun so far, Master Kohga?"

"Loads. But it'd be better if you stopped running around and started celebrating WITH me.”

Kohga grabbed at his chin, pulling him closer, and for a moment, Sooga contemplated just cancelling everything, and kicking everyone out of the room. But Kohga was worth far more than that. He chuckled, lightly bonking his mask with his.

“I will, I swear. But you’d be disappointing everyone who worked so hard to celebrate your greatness. Plus scheduling this took almost a whole week.”

“Fuss fuss fuss, that’s all you do.”

Kohga scoffed, finally letting him go. He could tell that despite his disappointment, he found Sooga’s affections sweet. So much work has gone to make HIS day even more special. Kohga looked like he was going to complain some more, when suddenly, from out of the kitchen, came not only a few blade masters, but the champions, helping carry the BIGGEST cake you’ve ever seen. That caught Kohga’s attention, and he sat up in his seat, clapping wildly. It wasn’t JUST this beautiful cake being brought forth (heavy on the caramel icing), but all types of food that he LOVED, all in one table. Fried bananas, meat stews, tabantha bakes, all types of creamy, thick soups, bowls of tender, delicious meat, and all types of various rice dishes. Best part? Not a SINGLE fish dish in sight. Kohga looked nearly excited enough to jump out of his special birthday chair.

“Is THIS what you spent so long doing? Is this why you ‘forgot’ my breakfast this morning?”

“Perhaps. Please, eat as much as you please. I take it you’re ready for presents?”

“Yes! Gimme ALL of them!”

Little did Kohga know, he’d be getting a VERY special gift tonight, thanks to Sooga.

-------------------------------------------

“Today was the best day EVER!”

“I couldn’t tell, given how much you were laughing and hugging everyone. Even Revali.”

“Hey he’s not bad when he’s sloshed.”

Kohga chuckled once Sooga set him down, bringing in his new presents right after. Hair clips from Revali, a friendship bracelet from Mipha, a birthday crown from Zelda, monster rice balls from Link (he didn’t question it), hard liquor from Urbosa, and LOTS of goron spice from Daruk. It was sweet, all of it was. Sooga chuckled as he finished bringing everything in, watching as Kohga sat there comfortably, rubbing at his VERY full tummy. Sooga sat down next to him, kissing the top of his head.

“Perfect birthday?”

“Almost. I ate so much other food, I didn’t get to try the cake.”

“Oh! I saved you a slice, just in case. It’s over...here!”

Sooga dug into the pile of stuff, and pulled out a plate. It held the neatest, biggest piece of cake he could get. Kohga chuckled, leaning over to lightly shove his shoulder.

“You saved me a piece? Why did I expect anything else from someone like you?”

“I’ll take that as a complement. Here, I have a fork.”

Sooga sat back down, cake in his hand, when something in him..clicked. Maybe it was his Master being happy. Maybe it was the fact that he ate SO much food, so full of gluttony and greed. He was surprised anyone got any food to eat in his wake. And he saw it, in that big, full tummy of his. It looked even bigger, even grander than ever.

“Could I feed this to you?”

Why would he ask that? Why would ANYONE ask that? He was about to apologize, when Kohga chuckled, slightly shaking his head.

“I mean, sure. Less effort for me, why not? Long as I get my cake.”

Kohga lifted his mask up a bit, just for his mouth. Sooga froze for a moment as Kohga sat there, mouth open and expecting. He..shouldn’t keep him waiting, right? He nodded, grabbed a piece, and put it right in his Master’s soft, plush mouth. He licked the frosting off of his lips, nodding in approval.

“That is a VERY good cake right there. Nice and moist.”

“I..take all the food was to your liking?”

“Oh definitely. The chicken curry, salted greens, oh and the tabantha bakes! I LOVED the tabantha bakes!”

He kept feeding Kohga piece by piece, watching as his lips enjoyed bite after bite. Kohga...did eat a LOT tonight. So many plates of warm, hearty food.

“I could tell. You kept dunking them in the poultry pilaf.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I have no idea how many plates of those that I ate.”

“I’d be more concerned over how many bowls of rice and meat you ate.”

Kohga groaned, giving his stomach a nice, satisfied rub.

“Ugh that meat was SO good. The rice was nice and sticky, the meat was juicy, you could wring that shit out. Thank god you got that cake, I’m starting to get hungry again.”

Sooga nodded as he kept sitting there, putting more and more cake into his mouth. Kohga was ever so hungry. Big, beautiful body DID need so many calories to keep it running. Sooga eventually ran out of cake, and he found himself still glancing at his big, heavy tummy. Kohga saw there was no more cake, and pouted.

“Ugh. I kinda want more cake. You think I should fast after this?”

“No! Absolutely not. You eat until you feel satisfied, Kohga. If you want to eat, you want to eat. I can go into the kitchen, have them make you another cake. Maybe something else to eat?”

“I’d KILL for a mushroom omelette right now. But I don’t want you to leave.”

Sooga thought about getting Kohga’s food anyway, but he just. Kept looking at how Kohga kept massaging at his tummy. Clearly he needed his help.

“Then I shall stay. We can give you a nice, big breakfast in the morning instead.”

“Whatever keeps us both here.”

Kohga burped into his hand, and Sooga immediately felt awful. His poor master’s stomach was clearly in need of his comforting hand. He crawled up to him, suddenly finding both hands on his belly, rubbing it in small, slow circles.

“I’ll stay here as long as you need. You just relax, my Master.”

Kohga chuckled, looking as if he’d stop Sooga’s fussing, only to put his hands behind his head, and continue to let him. Kohga didn’t speak as Sooga tenderly massaged his belly, staring at it longingly. It was so big, so beautiful, so full of everything that was good in this world. Sooga was attracted to him for his hands, his voice, his confidence, but honestly? His belly was his favorite part of him. He could feel the softness under the yiga uniform, feel the warmth under his fingertips. It was so lovely, so precious, just the weight of it all.

“Jesus Sooga, you’re easy.”

“Pardon?”

Kohga used his head to motion downward. Sooga looked down, and found himself aroused. VERY aroused. He pulled his hands away, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“I didn’t say you had to stop, you know. Go on, do your thing. Don’t forget, you haven’t given me my birthday present yet~”

Sooga thought about refusing, but...well, he hadn’t gotten him a gift just yet. And he really, REALLY wanted this. He put the pillow back, and buried his face into Kohga’s stomach. One hand was used to grab and grope at his belly, the other was used to free his cock from his cloth confines. Kohga had such a big, wonderful tummy, he hated how absolutely hard it made him.

“I...really like your stomach, Master Kohga.”

“Ah ah ah. YOU’RE jerking off because of my stomach, on MY birthday. You call it ‘poochy tummy’ like a good boy.”

“Must I?”

“You wanna cum, then yes.”

Sooga groaned. He hated that everyone called it that, it was stupid, But, if that’s what it took, so be it.

“I...really like your poochy tummy. A lot. Especially after you eat. You look so full and content after you stuff yourself.”

Sooga was already panting, grip tight and slow on his cock, just how preferred it. It didn’t help that Kohga put his hand on his head, affectionately petting him like he was such a good boy.

“That why you offered to feed me cake?”

“...maybe.”

“Pfft. Pervert. But I like it, it’s cute, knowing your cock gets so hard for my full belly. You could totally feed me again, would you like that?”

Sooga’s whine was stifled by Kohga’s big tummy, but Kohga was taking that as a yes. Sooga was sitting here, pumping his cock because he wanted to make his big belly even fuller. Such a cute bottom. Sooga liked this so much, he was already feeling himself at the edge.

“Master Kohga, I don’t think I’m going to l-last much-”

“You gonna stay there, or you gonna get up here and cum on my poochy tummy?”

The idea excited Sooga so much, he practically leapt up to sit right on him. With a slow, tender hand, Sooga sat there, pumping his cock (and even rubbing his cock RIGHT on him, like a dream). Then he came. Ribbons of cum came from him, littering his big, soft tummy, it reminded him of a nice, fresh cinnamon roll. Sooga sat there for a moment, trying to take in the fact that his cock was sitting there, amongst his own cum, right on Kohga’s tummy. Kohga chuckled, giving a light shake of his head.

“You JUMPED for that, didn’t you big boy? Not that I mind, I wanted some more dessert.”

Kohga swiped his finger across Sooga’s head, and licked that bit of cum off his finger.

Kohga may be the gluttonous one, but Sooga was truly the one who was hungry.

#asks #lemon #kohga #sooga #listen sooga just has a feeding kink #it's not something kohga is into like sexually #but he loves sooga being excited #AND loves the idea of being hand fed #especially cake #Kohga loves some banana cake

[dragonagecompanions]

hi there, so in love with your works. Seriously *bows head* thank you all so much. If its not too bad, I wanted to know how everyone in DAI from the advisors to the companions would react to a teen inquisitor who is brilliant at cooking? Yet the inquisitor has no idea about people from Leliana's agents to everyone else pinching her food.

Cassandra: She thinks she is being sneaky and subtle, insisting that because of their age and responsibility it is better for their young herald to stay close to camp and not take a watch when they leave Skyhold. There will be time for that when they are older, and bearless of a burden. If they will take on the difficulty of closing the rifts, then the most they should have to do is help around the camp, and after a long day nothing is appreciated more than hot food.

No one contradicts her, and the Seeker is left to silently congratulate herself on enjoying the absolutely divine way that their young leader has with rabbit and Hinterland herbs without making the Inquisitor feel worthless.

(And if everyone else lets her take a lead on that because she has mattered the speech, well...it’s really good stew.)

Varric: Damn, this is the stuff. Its like being back in the Hanged Man, except the bread is trying to actively strange him, and the pies aren’t staring back and.. 

It’s nothing like the Hanged Man, really, but the sheer comfort of phenomenal food at the end of the world? The same kind of warmth as sitting with your friends as the city goes to shit and laughing at a joke no one else gets. Their young protagonist has a good skill set on their hands, and If Varric’s writing table moves a little closer to the door into the kitchens, well.

Keeps the ink from freezing.

Solas: It had been a passing comment about the frilly cakes in Val Royeaux,  some exchange of banter with Varric about time passing and philosophy and the unending banal that one takes on to keep the miles from turning monotonous. He’d had no idea the Herald was listening, and so it makes it all the more touching when- after waqving to them as they take on the climb to the library- he comes down from his painter’s perch to find three petit fours waiting for him on his table. 

It drives home that they are a thoughtful young person, so different from the rest of this world, and if he uses the sweetness of the frosting and cake to drive away the twinge of guilt that his plans still move at speed....it does not take away from their talent, or their kindness. He will be content with that.

Blackwall: Food is food, particularly on the road. Hard tack and sausage has kept many a soldier alive, and he is the last person you’d hear complaining that he can’t put his pinky out eating meat from a spit. Luxury is for soft handed nobles, not men and women striving to make the world better. Let them have the best cuts-- Blackwall would starve before he robs true heroes of a hot meal.

And yet the first time he comes back from gathering firewood to find that the reason the inquisitor was tying so much string around the side of a wild hog was to make a porketta, and he got a good whiff of roasted pork slowly spinning in it’s own drippings....It would be a harder sacrifice. It made the Inquisitor so happy to watch their work be enjoyed and help people though, that it would the crueler not to take some. 

And if he dreams about the tender meat and crispy skin all perfectly seasoned and roasted for days afterwords, that’s no one’s business of his own. 

Vivienne: She cuts an imposing figure, and for the Madame de Fer is quite proud. It has cowed more than one recalcitrant novice into place with only a long legged stride alone, and for that she is a legend in her circle. Of course the stories do not tell how she would never be cruel or unfeeling to a child, and particularly not one far from home and frightened of every shadow like the ones that the Templars rip from families and depost in a new and strange place.

She expects a similar attitude from the young Herald, particularly after her (rahter stunning) entrance on their first meeting. And perhaps they were a bit overawed, but before it could become something she needs to address Lady Vivienne is pleasantly surprised to find their young leader coming to her for advice from a letter from some minor Orlesian lord. And while surely it will be up to Josephine to craft the response Vivienne is delighted that the Inquisitor wants her input.

That they went to the effort to bring beignet’s with them as a bribe...For that, she will give them every secret of the author’s well kept family scandals. 

Sera: Their Bitty Herald can make cookies better than Sera can make cookies, but they aren’t the kind that you throw at people as a prank or that come out all rock hard and brown and blegh. They are the soft gooey kind that make you want to steal the whole plate and eat them on your roof but also throw the plate at their Quizznitor because....because cookies!

She will trade pranks for cookies, who ever her Jenny in training wants to see doused in water or flour or...or...pudding! Pudding for cookies is the most fair.

Dorian: Southern food is bland and tasteless, and Skyhold’s resident ‘Vint will endure it for as long as he must to help defeat this ancient magister and get things on the right track. And the beer isn’t the worst, much to his own dismay as his delicate palette accepts the swill. But the food is all friend or brown or smothered in gravy, and he’d just as soon not.

So when they finally stop for the night under the endless web of branches that keep the sky from meeting the Fallow Mire, the pond water full of dead people sounds more appealing than one more night of Varric’s nug stew. Which makes the fact their valiant young Herald just ladled him a bowl of Minestrone so much more impressive. Their shrugged explanation of ‘I’ve always wanted to make it and the merchants had actual artichokes on the way here and you can tell me if I got it right’ does nothing to take away the warmth and delight the gesture brings to him. 

It would be like coming home, if anyone had ever made sucha rustic and delightful soup for him without strings and hooks attached in Tevinter, and for the first time on the whole mission Dorian isn’t chilled the rest of the night. 

The Iron Bull: He isn’t sure which one of the Chargers talks to the Herald (lies, it was  Krem), but one night half the fortress is piled into the Rest and the Inquisitor is waiting with four bowls of unreadable origin. The explanation that these are four kinds of curry and each is hotter than the last is the best gift he’s ever gotten, but the wager of a single coin (he won’t steal more than that from the kid) that the Iron Bull can’t finish them for the spice is even better. 

Three hours later finds him chewing on one of Stitche’s poultices for a burnt tongue (and throat and stomach and probably ass in a few hours) but one coin richer and hoarse voiced from the roaring laughter he’d gotten after a straight face convinced Krem to try the last bown and he’d literally wept.

Good times. 

Cole: The nug is made of bread, and it isn’t a nug but it looks like one. And it’s wearing a tiny hat! ‘Roll the dough out, has to be thin so it rises to keep the shape, he likes nugs so much and doesn’t ask for anything and Sera bet me I couldn’t.’ You made it for me. Thank you! He says hello back!

Josephine: When their ambassador hears that not only does the Herald have an aunt who married into a merchant house in Antiva but the inquisitor spent a summer there and learned to make authentic Paella, Lady Montiliyet’s mind is a whirlwind of plans and thoughts of just the appropriate bribe that would spare her from getting down on her knees and begging a fifteen year old to make her favorite dish. Eventually Leliana gets tired of little doodles of steaming bowls on all their meeting notes and sends a raven  three windows over, Josie, really with an ‘anonymous’ request to make it and leave it in the war room in exchange for a trade of equal value. 

And when Josephine finds out that all the Inquisitor wants is the creepy love letters from young  Orlesian nobles to go away, she takes great delight in her strongly worded letters to their mothers in between heaping mouthfuils of white wine rice and shrimp and the warm bite of saffron that will always be home.

Leliana: It is written on no report or schedule, and her agents will go to the grave without speaking of it to another soul, but the Inquisition’s spymaster has a man in the kitchens whose only role is to fetch firewood and water and try to one day recover his shattered after a terrible mission in her service. It’s easy work for a man who gave so much, and somewhere he is able to do good work until the tremors and the nightmares stop. The kitchen staff is kind to him and treat him well, but his true mission is known only to himself and his mistress.

The second the herald starts making  Cassoulet he is to fetch her immediately. She won’t be caught in a meeting and miss her favorite food again, damn it.

Cullen: It’s hard for the Inquisitor’s commander to be at ease with someone who is both a child and at least nominally his leader. They are someone he wants to protect, but also the key to stopping the world and someone who must be on the front lines. That is gift alone to the world, but when the rumors begin to swirl that they will also go out of their way to make things that people like it brings a small smile to his face. The world would be better if had more people like the herald in it. 

Especially if they could all make little crocks of shepards pie like the one that sits on his desk after a day of long meetings and a lyrium migraine. That might make everything right again.

-- Mod Fereldone

#dragon age inquisitions #Cassandra Pentaghast #Solas #Varric Tethras #sera #dorian pavus #the iron bull #cole #blackwall #josephine montilyet #Leliana #cullen rutherford #vivienne de fer #reactions #teen inquisitor

[nejitensstuff]

Pregnant

Iduna stood in the cathedral once again, the white banners and ribbons still adorning the interior. Another crowd had gathered for the spectacle, this time only her walking up the aisle as Agnarr stood from the front pew, smiling warmly at her to sooth her shaking hands. The bishop was smiling too, perched just in front of the great stone altar, holding a wooden staff on his shoulder. Iduna reached the foot of the bishop and knelt on a mauve cushion, its soft fabric sinking lightly under her weight. The bishop recited old prayers in a forgotten language, the mumble of the crowd growing silent as the ceremony reached a climax. Iduna blinked and before she knew it was standing in front of the priest again but facing the crowd who were cheering. A silver crown weighed heavily on her head and a sceptre rested lightly against her shoulder. She searched for Agnarr and found his face beaming with pride.

"Behold, Queen Iduna of Arendelle!" the priest shouted and the crowd erupted into an even greater cacophony of noise.

XXX

Agnarr had refused to tell her their destination, the eagerness to surprise her clear in his eyes. With a reluctant sigh she had accepted him not telling her and instead waited expectantly in the carriage; suitcases and bags being loaded up on its back.

"You're still not telling me where we're going?" she asked.

"No, I'll only tell you that you'll enjoy it" Agnarr's youthful smiled warmed her heart again. "Could I appease you with some chocolates?" he pulled out a small box from the small bag by his feet and offered her one.

"You can always appease me with chocolates" she smiled and accepted one, popping it in her mouth.

The journey wound through the city, the adoring dwellers coming out to greet their new King and Queen, the towering wooden and brick houses providing shelter from the early march sun. The cart wound higher and higher, the packed streets giving way to the thinly spaced farmsteads and the odd shop along the cobbled track. Soon the cobbles turned to gravel, and the houses came to a halt. Iduna looked out the window, taking in the beautiful mountains towering high above them to the right, and to the left the Fjord stretched out beyond the horizon to the open sea, glittering in the faint distance. The tips of the mountains were crowned with the brilliant white of pure snow, and the north mountain in the distance stood up like a bristled spine amidst the rough ridges of the lower mountains.

"It's beautiful up here" Iduna said, snuggling up next to Agnarr.

"It's the best place I the world. Perfect for our honeymoon." Agnarr curled in around her, the breeze from the open window and the rhythmic sway of the carriage relaxing him.

"It can be just you and I, not the king and queen" Iduna said sleepily, yawning from the few 'restless' nights.

"At last. Iduna and Agnarr, just us two." he pressed a loving kiss to her chocolatey hair. "Do you remember when you woke me up in the middle of the night to look at a comet?" Agnarr asked, a snorting laugh erupting from Iduna.

"And you nearly fell out of the bed with fear!" her giggled made Agnarr's heart burst.

"Hey, it's not every day you get yanked out of bed in the middle of the night!" Agnarr blushed.

"It is nowadays!" Iduna burst into a cackle as Agnarr grew beetroot red, swatting at her arm playfully.

"And I wonder whose fault that is?" he quipped, smirking.

"hey, it takes two to tango!" she burst out laughing again and he conceded, joining in.

"We're almost here" he said, leaning out the window and seeing the little red house nestled on the mouth of the forest.

"Where is here?" Iduna asked, leaning out from the other side and joining him.

"Here is not too far from there and a little bit further from nowhere" he replied, smiling warmly. The carriage came to a stop and Iduna looked at the house. Wooden beams painted a deep red graced its structure and small windows made with crisscrossed patterns of glass were sunk into the pale honey colour of the main building. A small fence guarded a front garden filled with lilacs and crocuses, blooming brilliantly in the early march sunlight.

"It's beautiful Agnarr" Iduna threw herself at Agnarr and smiled, his arms wrapping around her back and hugging her slim body next to his. He broke contact and heaved a chest from the carriage to the door of the house. Taking an old brass key from his tunic pocket he unlocked the door and revealed a warm house inside. The fire was burning away, and a kettle of hot water was already boiling over the hearth. An old servant nodded to the king and left the house, sitting on the carriage silently. Within a secodn the carriage had moved off and began to disappear into the distance. Iduna and Agnarr stood in the front garden, taking in the scenic beauty around them.

"We're alone!" Iduna exclaimed, throwing her hands up in celebration before launching herself at the young king, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the floor. They clambered up from the little stone path and rushed the dust off each other before colliding together once more in a deep kiss.

"I love you" he said, breaking them apart ever so slightly so their noses were just touching.

"I know, and I love you too" she closed the gap with a chaste kiss, never getting used to the electric sparks shooting around her body at every touch.

"Come on, that kettle will boil dry if we stand out here like lovesick teenagers kissing all day" he heaved both of their bags through the door and embraced the warmth of the cottage.

"We are lovesick teenagers! And kissing all day doesn't sound too bad!" she said, taking in the light interior of the room. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, leaving a pleasant earthy smell in the lower living room. Iduna traced her hand through the green branches, inhaling the soothing fragrance, losing herself to memories of a great boiling pot of stew over a campfire, Lavvus gathered around the great firepit.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Agnarr asked, the blond boy standing in the staircase.

"Are you saying I'm not worth a shilling?" Iduna asked, smiling at the blush on his cheeks. "I'm thinking of the forest. I'm sad that our children won't know what it's like" a lamenting look graced her face.

"They might yet, the forest may be freed, and the spirits might come back."

"Only Ahtohallan knows" Iduna resigned, sighing. "Come, let's forget about the past. We have a future ahead of us and a family to look forward to. I do believe I am yet to see the upstairs section of the cottage yet." Iduna turned round and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"I can give you a detailed tour don't worry." Agnarr smiled, nuzzling her neck making her squeak loudly and burst into a fit of giggles.

"Especially of the bedroom" she said, dark blue eyes filled with an excited mirth.

Fighting to stop the blush spreading up his face he replied. "If my lady wishes it"

XXX

The two cuddled together in the double bed, bodies pressed tightly against each other under the fluffy duvet and warm blankets enlivened with a simple rosemaling.

"How many days do we have here?" Iduna asked. "I never want it to finish"

"We have two weeks, and then we have to go back." Agnarr kissed her bare shoulder, making her shudder under the warmest of touches.

"It's perfect" she said to no one in particular, gazing out of the little window at the perfectly clear blue sky now turning into a deep lilac as the sun sank beneath the mountains.

"it's our little slice of heaven" he replied, hugging her slim figure een tighter under the covers. "I have a treat for you, I have learnt how to make some of your favourite food in the kitchens and for tea you have a choice of Smoked Haddock, Potato and Rosemary soup, that disgusting curry thing you like, or fruit cake."

"Fruit cake? For dinner?"

"hey, it's our honeymoon, we can make the rules" he held up his free hand, keeping the one nestled under her still.

"Okay, my little anarchist. I think the haddock sounds good" she kissed his nose making him blush brightly as he got out the bed, her whining slightly at the loss of warmth.

XXX

"How did you learn to cook so well" Iduna asked, amazed at the perfectly steamed fish on the plate.

"What can I say? Gerda's a good cook" his mind drifted back to the memory of Gerda hitting his hands with a ruler whenever he did something wrong in the kitchens and the following lecture about 'being a good husband' he shivered and focused back onto the plate of fish and his gorgeous wife on the other end of the table.

XXX

"That one there is Betelgeuse" Iduna said, pointing up at the red star on the shoulder of Orion in the pitch-black sky. Billions of stars illuminated the murky blackness, peppering the dome above them with pinpricks of light in thousands of colours. Laid down on a woollen mat the two cuddled, Iduna explaining to Agnarr all the stories behind the stars and constellations and their names, occasionally getting too excited and starting using words that sounded like a foreign language to Agnarr who adored the excited twinkle in her sapphire eyes.

"You really are the smartest person I know Iduna" he leant his head on her shoulder. "Mistress of the heavens" he mumbled.

"don't sell yourself short, I could never speak as many languages as you or write as many speeches as you or talk to the council without cutting their heads off..."

"Trust me that last one is a trial in itself" the two laughed, deep heaving giggles filling their chests.

"But even so, you're amazing Agnarr in every way shape and form. I love you with all my heart." she rolled on top of him and gave him an Eskimo kiss.

"I love you too my little stargazer" he returned the kiss, bringing the two into a deep and loving embrace. He kissed her neck, catching a small bit of skin between his teeth making her gasp. Immediately he jerked up frightened her hurt her, worry filling his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, scanning her face for any signs of discomfort.

"More than okay" she pulled him into her and rolled him on top of her, immediately deepening their kisses into a full blown make-out session.

XXX

Agnarr chased Iduna through the forest, the laughter and shouts of joy of the couple brought back their youth to a time before the forest, before the war and before the council. Iduna, with her years of experience, zipped through the trees blending in with their trunks and foliage, jumping on Agnarr here and there from above and below, outwitting the king with a stunning speed. Agnarr tried his best to keep up, but the wily girl was too fast and precise for him to grab hold of or tackle, wriggling free or sending him crashing to the ground. Eventually Iduna let him catch her, his quietly strong arms wrapping around her thin frame. Agnarr followed with her, the two spinning and laughing in the forest clearing, but tripped on a root causing both to collapse into the dirt with a deep thud. Wind knocked out of their chest they caught their breaths and immediately burst out laughing. Their fingers interlaced with each other's automatically, tight grips from each hand making the other go white. The sunlight fell through the broad leaves of the forest, leaving dappled patterns on the floor, occasionally flashing over the couple and lighting up their faces.

"Is this how the forest was?" Agnarr asked "Before it all?"

"In the summer it was, spring was always a bit slower because we were so far north. We used to have a celebration for the equinox to mark the coming of spring each year and the first cloudberries would appear a week later."

"It sounds idyllic" Agnarr said, drawing spirals in the earth.

"It was, in the summer it would be filled with the brightest greens, in the autumn it would burst into thousands of colours, the winter would be icy and cold but filled with snow and ice and the spring would burst from the ashes of the permafrost and bloom in pinks and whites all over the ground." Iduna wiped away a tear from the memory.

"I don't remember much of the forest, only that you were there" Agnarr cleared his throat and cuddled close to her, a comforting hand placed on her back.

"We used to play with the wind spirit, she used to lift us up from the ground and toss you around" Iduna laughed through the tears. "You looked like a right old mess spinning around" the laughter grew and Agnarr joined in.

"Do you believe in fate?" Agnarr asked.

"Depends..." Iduna replied, mysteriously. "I believe consigning yourself to fate is lazy. Fate is manifested through deeds, not a given."

"Fate is all" Agnarr said. "Anyway, it's getting dark we should get back."

XXX

The campfire crackled in the hearth, its warm light casting dark shadows around the small room. Two great armchairs stood either side of the fireplace, nestled within each was Iduna and Agnarr, both engrossed in tightly bound books with stories of mermaids, castles and dragons. Steaming cups of hot chocolate lay on the table between them, occasionally one would reach for their mug and take a sip, eyes unbreaking from the pages as a climactic end drew near. Agnarr noticed the flames die a little and carefully placing his book down he went over and scooped another handful of peat onto it, the flames immediately roaring back to life spitting and crackling like a raging dragon. He returned to his place and lifted both legs up, so they were tucked tightly beneath his frame, gaze returning to the story book. Suddenly Iduna jumped up from the chair and ran towards the bathroom. Throwing the book aside he ran to her, just in time to catch her hair as she emptied her stomach.

"Please tell me that wasn't my cooking" he half joked as he handed her some tissues when she'd finished.

"It wasn't" she said between breaths before immediately throwing up again. Agnarr rubbed soothing circles on her back, growing more and more concerned by the second.

"Should I call a doctor?" he asked, his green eyes dark with concern.

"No, it's okay, I know what it is" Iduna slumped back against the bathroom wall, exhausted from the exertion of throwing up the past days' worth of chocolate and food.

"Care to enlighten me?" he asked, offering her a glass of water as she gratefully rinsed her mouth out.

"I'm three weeks late" she closed her eyes and leant her head back on the cool wall, giving relief to the pounding headache now forming.

"What does that mean?" Agnarr asked, clueless.

"Thank God you're not a doctor" Iduna laughed to herself.

"I think I'm pregnant".

XXX

A/N: A few shorter fluff filled chapters for now. R&R!

[bentonpena]

Tofu Freaking Rules

Tofu Freaking Rules https://bit.ly/350TvUV

We need to talk about tofu. As Beyond Meat and Impossible Burger mania sweeps the globe, the OG vegan protein is getting left behind—and I, for one, hate to see it. If you’re serious about reducing your reliance on animal products, tofu has the potential to change your diet—and life—for the better.

To some extent, I get why so many people, particularly American meat-eaters, are resistant to the entire concept of tofu. Western culture has ruthlessly (and racist-ly) slandered the humble soy-based protein for as long as we’ve known about it, so a lot of us were basically programmed from birth to think it’s garbage.

I’m begging you to reconsider. When correctly prepared, tofu is a textural marvel, running the gamut from delicate and custardy to deep-fried and crunchy. Its unmatched flavor-absorbing powers make it a total chameleon; it truly can be anything you want it to be. I’ve loved tofu my whole meat-eating life, and I’m here to convert the naysayers. Welcome to my Tofu Manifesto.

You’re probably thinking about tofu all wrong

The biggest, wrongest tofu misconception is that it’s strictly a meat substitute. Sure, it can be that if it needs to—but tofu’s closest animal protein analog is actually the egg. On their own, eggs are bland; it’s their ability to morph into a staggering array of forms and textures that makes them so special. However you like your eggs—fried crisp with lacy edges, scrambled soft with lots of butter, or cooked into a puffy, tender frittata—I’m willing to bet your preferences come down to texture rather than flavor.

The same is true for tofu, which is why I’m skeptical when people insist they don’t like how it tastes. Soft and silken tofu has a more noticeable soy milk vibe than the firm stuff, but for the most part, it adds no flavor whatsoever to a dish. Tofu only tastes as good as the sauce it’s served in—texture is basically the whole point.

It’s embarrassingly easy to make tofu taste amazing

Contrary to popular assumption, delicious tofu takes barely any work at all. In fact, all the usual hacks try way too hard: Pressing takes forever (and freezing even longer); marinating often yields profoundly mediocre results; a cornstarch dredge too easily sogs out. None of these techniques work particularly well on medium-to-soft tofu, and with the exception of marinating, they also offer absolutely nothing in the way of seasoning.

For all of these reasons and more, the salt water trick is the only tofu hack worth knowing. Hot, salty water is a tofu prep triple threat: It dehydrates firm tofu so it crisps up quickly, sets super-fragile soft tofu so it doesn’t fall apart, and seasons everything through and through. It also adds as much work to your dinner prep as boiling pasta. I’ll get into the specific techniques in a bit; for now, just know that the salt water hack promoted tofu from something I’d buy occasionally to a legit, can’t-live-without-it staple.

If you remain unmoved, I’ve collected my favorite tofu products and preparations in one place, starting with the most hater-friendly ones. This isn’t a recipe post—it’s all about the technique. (Where applicable, I’ll link to specific recipes that I used and explain how I adjusted them to work with tofu, with the hope that you’ll soon be doing the same.)

Even hardline skeptics love fried tofu puffs

Tofu puffs are cheap, delicious, deep-fried flavor sponges that need zero prep; in other words, they’re easy to love. You can toss them whole into curries and stews for a fun textural element, but I strongly recommend taking 30 seconds to slice them in half. With their honeycomb-like interiors exposed, these puffy little nuggets soak up sauce like nobody’s business—without compromising their crispiness.

To show them off, I made my favorite Maangchi recipe—cheese buldak, or fire chicken with cheese—with halved tofu puffs instead of chicken breast.

Those two ingredients are obviously nothing alike, but the swap totally works thanks to the insanely powerful sauce. Red-hot both in color and spice level, surprisingly sweet, and with enough fresh ginger and garlic to put hair on your chest, it more than picks up the slack for something as bland as chicken breast or unseasoned tofu. Having made this dish with chicken dozens of times, I have to say—I prefer the puffs. Even when saturated with sauce, they stay light and puffy, which is the perfect contrast to the ultra-chewy texture of sliced rice cakes and melted mozzarella.

Pressed tofu does (most of) the prep work for you

As the name implies, pressed tofu has already been pressed to remove most of its moisture, resulting in a pleasantly toothsome texture. You can buy it pre-seasoned with soy sauce and five spice powder, but I like it plain so I can season it however I like.

Here, I whipped up a vaguely Spam-inspired mixture of roughly 2 tablespoons each of soy sauce and sugar, plus a teaspoon of garlic powder and a few shakes of smoky hot sauce (El Yucateco Black Label Reserve for life). I added some cubed pressed tofu and let everyone hang out about 20 minutes, flipping them around halfway through. You don’t need much marinade; a shallow layer is plenty.

I then used it to bulk up a super basic batch of fried rice with ginger, garlic, carrots, and frozen peas. The cubes got nicely crispy and charred on the edges, and were just what I needed to add some substance to a huge bowl of fried carbs.

Unseasoned pressed tofu also makes great vegan “paneer:” Cube it up and marinate in lemon juice with a few pinches of salt for 30 minutes, or longer if you have the time. As with regular paneer, you can pan-fry the tofu or leave it alone; either way, you’ll be surprised at how closely the marinated tofu mimics the texture and flavor of the real thing.

Medium-to-firm tofu needs a little TLC

This range of the tofu spectrum is the most recognizable and the least immediately appealing. I mean, just look at this:

In my experience, the variations between medium, firm, and extra-firm tofu are pretty meaningless, and I use them all interchangeably. Left uncooked, they all have a texture best described as “rubbery,” with no discernible flavor at all. Their highest calling is getting crispy in a hot skillet and doused in a flavorful sauce.

All you need to make crunchy pan-fried tofu is salt water, a good nonstick pan, and all of 20-30 minutes. That’s it. Here’s my usual procedure for a standard 1-pound block.

Before I do any other ingredient prep, I bring 2-3 cups of salted water and 2 teaspoons of table salt to a strong boil in a saucepan. Then I cut the heat, slide in my tofu, and let it sit while I prepare the rest of the recipe. After 15-20 minutes, I drain off the water and either pat the tofu dry on clean towels or leave it in the colander until I need it.

To get that crispy surface going, I coat my big cast-iron skillet with a thin layer of neutral oil and heat it over medium-high. I then add the tofu, spread it into an even layer, and leave it completely alone for at least 5 minutes.

Once the edges start to brown, I flip it over and do the same on the other side.

Boom. Done. Obviously, I used crumbled tofu here—it’s my favorite—but this works just as well with cubes, slabs, triangles, or any other shape you can dream up.

Don’t sleep on crumbled tofu

I know I said that tofu isn’t a meat substitute, but crispy tofu crumbles get really fucking close. In many cases, I prefer them to meat because they hold their shape—and a surprising amount of crunch—even when simmered for a long time. Sure, they don’t give you the specific richness you get with ground pork or beef, but with the right recipe you won’t miss it at all.

Speaking of the right recipe, Bon Appétit Test Kitchen director Chris Morocco’s spicy sweet sambal pork noodles are flawless—but, despite the name, I’ve actually never made them with meat. I only had tofu the first time I made them, and they turned out so well that I’m fine with never learning how they taste with pork.

I make the recipe exactly as written, except—obviously—I leave the pork out. Instead, I fry up soaked, crumbled firm tofu in a separate skillet while the sauce simmers, then dump ‘em in and toss everything together with cooked noodles. This cuts at least 30 minutes off the cook time without compromising on anything except porkiness, which I promise won’t even register.

You can also use tofu crumbles like ground beef. I usually throw in some minced onion and garlic in once the tofu is nice and crispy, then cook it down with a little tomato paste, taco seasoning, and cheap beer if I’ve got it.

It’s not beefy, exactly, but it tastes incredible in its own right—and makes a killer vegan-friendly crunchwrap filling.

You can roast tofu, too

Maybe you’d rather not spray your stovetop with oil in the name of crispy tofu. In that case, roasted tofu is for you. The results are directly comparable to pan-frying—they just take a little longer to get there.

Start with soaked, drained tofu, preferably cut into triangles or flat slabs so they’re easy to flip. Arrange on a clean towel and let them dry out while your oven preheats to 450ºF.

If you like, cut a vegetable of your choice into similarly-sized pieces and toss them with a tablespoon or two of neutral oil; I’m using kabocha squash here.

Place a sheet pan on the lowest oven rack. After about 3 minutes, add 2-3 tablespoons of neutral oil to the pan, put it back in the oven, and heat for another minute or two. Carefully transfer the tofu and vegetables to the hot oiled pan, return to the bottom rack, and roast for at least 20 minutes. Flip everything over and roast for another 15-20 minutes, until the tofu is super crispy on both sides and the vegetables are browned and soft.

You can eat the whole shebang straight off the pan—perhaps drizzled with spicy peanut sauce or chili oil—but I added mine to a quick curry made with Maesri panang curry paste, palm sugar, and coconut milk. (Maesri is the only brand I’ve found that doesn’t use shrimp paste or fish sauce; if you usually avoid prepared curry paste for allergy or vegan reasons, give it a try.)

To be completely honest, the kabocha was a miss—the flesh was too dry, and the skin was super tough. The crispy roasted tofu, however, slapped. They can’t all be bangers; such is the nature of experimentation.

When you feel ready, silken tofu is there for you

The next stop on our tour de tofu is the most controversial, misunderstood one yet: Soft or silken tofu. Yes, it’s bland. Unseasoned coagulated soy milk isn’t going to blow your mind with super-concentrated umami or whatever. But when prepared correctly, soft tofu is more than just delicious—it’s absolutely sublime. I will go to bat for it all day long, and I would love to tell you why.

The dish that changed my mind about silken tofu came from Biwa, a now-closed izakaya-style bar in Portland. It was deceptively simple: A whole block of chilled silken tofu drizzled with sweet soy sauce and topped with bias-cut scallions, fistfuls of toasted sesame seeds, and paper-thin bonito shavings. I ordered it every time, and my friends would always be like—“Cold tofu? Why?” But if I could convince them to take a bite, they’d understand. It was like eating a deeply savory panna cotta.

Unfortunately, my dearly departed Tofu Slab is no more—and my attempts to recreate it have been so unsuccessful that I’m forced to settle for the next best thing: Salt water-soaked silken tofu mounded on hot white rice and drowned in chili oil, soy sauce, and black vinegar.

I’m not complaining. The salt water, once again, is key: It turns a cold, slimy block of tofu into a piping-hot savory custard, which is the perfect canvas for condiments. Sure, there’s not much in the way of textural contrast, but the softness is so comforting and nice that I think a crunchy element would actually defeat the purpose. It’s a delicious, balanced, reasonably nutritious meal you can throw together in the time it takes to cook a pot of rice.

Putting it all together: All-tofu mapo tofu

Neglecting to mention mapo tofu in an article about tofu is basically journalistic malpractice. The iconic Sichuanese tofu dish is rich, meaty, spicy, funky, sour, and savory all at once—and slicked with lip-numbing Sichuan peppercorn oil for good measure. It’s a top 3 dish for me; I make it all the time, usually using Maggie Zhu’s recipe from the Omnivore’s Cookbook.

Being a big vegetable fan, I’ve experimented with using minced veg—eggplant, mushrooms, and even carrots—in place of the traditional ground meat. But this time, I decided to follow my vision and make a variant I’m calling “Oops! All Tofu.” I approached this recipe just like the sambal noodles, swapping crispy tofu crumbles in for the ground pork—but this time, I also soaked some cubed soft tofu in a fresh pot of salt water while the sauce simmered away.

This was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever made. The nubbins of soft tofu were literally melt-in-your-mouth tender, while the crispy crumbles turned downright meaty as they soaked up the spicy, salty, rich sauce. It made me even more certain of all of the (correct) tofu opinions I just laid out before you and, if you’ll let it, it has the power to convert you too.

Internet via Lifehacker https://bit.ly/2VwWgKq April 24, 2020 at 12:01PM

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[genesisofsadness]

Farmyard, norwich: ‘for the maximum element, it works’ – restaurant overview

They do drop some catches here, but the commendable ambition makes all of it worthwhile

bistronomy in st benedicts avenue: chef andrew jones (left) at farmyard, norwich. Bistronomy in st benedicts road: chef andrew jones (left) at farmyard, norwich. Photo: chris ridley/the observer farmyard, 23 st benedicts street, norwich nr2 4pf (01603 733 188). Snacks £3. 50, starters £7-£nine, mains £thirteen-£26, cakes £7, wines from £19. 50

farmyard in norwich is the form of restaurant that brings out the maternal in me. Reading the menu makes me feel like one of those dad and mom status in the wings all through the auditions for britain’s got skills, watching my children, ant and dec’s palms lightly on my shoulders for moral guide. I am determined for the kitchen to prevail. I want to hug them all to my bosom and inform them the whole thing could be ok. I’m additionally terrified they’ll drop the capture. It's far for eating place goers who are glad to provide the kitchen permission to try only a little harder that is a grossly patronising issue to say to a team of skilled cooks. However the menu is so ambitiously everywhere in the area, is any such random, swooping series of dishes, i'm able to’t pretty help myself. It’s no longer a lot stressed as at the run. Say hello to cooking which attracts its thought from mexico or japan, north africa or spain, and a gaggle of locations in-among. It demands so many competencies, so much know-how of the way various techniques, spices and dishes sit inside a way of life, that misfires seem almost guaranteed. A number of it is actually down to the language used. On the menu they describe what they do as “bistronomy”, a venerable word first coined in paris inside the early 90s with the aid of professional chefs bored with the puckered and stiff atmosphere within the city’s grandest garlanded gastro palaces. They desired to retain being creative, adventurous cooks, however inside the body of a comfy bistro, with the encouraging pricing that suggests. This brilliant and secure area with its business ducted ceiling, strand board floors, and partly open white tiled kitchen, in reality can't be accused of pretension. For the proctologically challenged, be aware: there are padded banquettes.

‘the chips preserve plenty of their bite’: ham, egg and chips. Facebooktwitterpinterest ‘the chips keep lots in their chunk’: ham, egg and chips. Image: chris ridley/the observer the menu language is a little greater trying. A wonton as served here is really just a dumpling or folded piece of pasta by means of every other misused call? A beetroot “wine gum” is honestly a piece of partially dehydrated beetroot. You may determine to be profoundly irritated through this mangling of the lexicon, or you may decide the meals at the plate. I’m going with the latter due to the fact, for the most element, it works. There are misfires. The batter of salt and pepper squid, from the part of the menu headed “snacks”, doesn’t appear particularly interested by staying attached to its host. However it handiest costs £3. 50 so it’s hard to roll your eyes for lengthy. Those beetroot “wine gums”, candy and chewy, are served with a dollop of horseradish cream to drag them through. They depart strawberry-colored ribbons via the dulux whiteness, and are lots better. A few dish names are a gentle funny story constructed round understatement. Ham, egg and chips are lumps of smoky, salty, collapsing ham hock, with a cured egg yolk and a massive knot of deep-fried, spiralised potato. The latter seems at the beginning a touch difficult and underneath cooked, but there is a limpid hammy broth at the lowest of the bowl. The “chips” maintain a great deal in their bite as they shatter into it with a whack of the fork.

“highly spiced carrot wonton” are, as i recommended, simply any other word for folded-over ravioli, and not specifically highly spiced. However there's a thick celeriac purée here, and some roasted carrots to preserve the interest. It may not quite match as much as its billing, however it’s a solid and dependable little bit of cooking. As is a £sixteen important route of a roasted hen leg, with a boneless, breaded and deep-fried wing, on a thick truffle purée and fowl jus. 1/2 a roasted leek, singed in various places, slumps across it, languorously. It’s a roast fowl dinner that has polished its shoes and combed its hair. To head along we have a bowl of shredded brassicas, thru which both toasted almonds and a pokey salsa verde have been spooned. It’s a cheery act of interest to detail. A potato “terrine” is some other model of spuds sliced and pressed and cooked, then cut into rectangles and deep fried, which, at bubala some months back, were described erroneously as latkes. Regardless of the call, they may be usually welcome.

‘no longer particularly spicy’: spicy carrot wonton. A vegetable ramen is a dish i discover myself nodding at admiringly, in preference to adoring. There's a effective intensity to the broth, and the dozens of toasted barley buried in its steaming depths along a load of different veg, make certain no person will pass hungry. But the noodles are replaced through spiralised carrot. It’s an unusual call. That is partially due to the fact the usage of noodles could not have impacted the meat-unfastened nature of the dish. They could have introduced a little extra starch to the broth and might additionally have justified calling it a ramen. But more often than not it’s an bizarre name because it makes it appear as if proudly owning a spiralizer is an entirely affordable existence preference, when of path they're implements that deserve to be pointed and laughed at with such malice that they subsequently throw themselves into the bin out of embarrassment. Even bearing in mind the unevenness of that dish i ought to consider myself back here trying their version of a multi-layered mole poblano with bbq lamb and blue corn tacos, simply to look whether or not they may without a doubt pull it off, or the roast hake with paprika chickpea stew. This farmyard is decided to fatten up its residents. Cakes turn among the outrageous and the outrageously comforting. The former is defined as a “white chocolate bar”. It’s a sizable block of smooth, sticky white chocolate ganache. It would be teeth-achingly sweet were it no longer for the bold saltiness of the miso caramel slathered across the pinnacle, the scattering of peanuts and the intense dark chocolate sorbet. It’s a re-engineered snickers bar, possibly with the aid of a person who lately kicked a first-rate crystal meth addiction and is now searching out a socially suited manner by way of which to get off their face. With the aid of contrast a steamed ginger pudding, perched on earrings of gently spiced pineapple with a coconut sorbet is a gentle all-in-one hug and back rub.

‘re-engineered snickers’: white chocolate-miso bar. Facebooktwitterpinterest ‘re-engineered snickers’: white chocolate-miso bar. Photo: chris ridley/the observer right here at farmyard they may now not usually gain every one among their goals. Some of those catches really are dropped. However on foot lower back along the norwich lane it calls domestic, exceeded unremarkable pizzerias and dependable looking bistros and cocktail bars designed for a friday night time, the area of interest it fills became apparent. It's miles for restaurant goers who're happy to offer the kitchen permission to try just a little harder and strive only a little extra. And honestly, couldn’t we all do with a eating place like that? Information bites

proper now you may now not be thinking about travelling restaurants, but you may accomplish that once more. In the spirit of assist for the eating place quarter, this column will retain making tips. Simply over at the norfolk coast from farmyard isn't any 1 cromer, which belongs to chef galton blackiston of morston hall. Downstairs it’s a first-rate carpenter and ice cream bar. Upstairs, there’s a globe-trotting bistro which takes in the whole thing from fish tacos to hoisin duck pancakes, tandoori fowl naan and a massaman vegan curry. It’s bold but, usually it works (no1cromer. Com). Till the cease of april heston blumenthal’s three michelin celebrity fats duck in bray is reducing the price of its menu by using £seventy five. It’s nevertheless a stonking £250 with the cut price. At time of writing there are some lunchtime tables to be had within the moderately spaced eating room. This will be the instant to strive it (thefatduck. Co. Uk). Oisin rogers, who's the nearest factor london has to a celeb publican, is to take a second boozer underneath his wing, alongside the guinea grill in mayfair, famed for its beefy menu of steaks and claret. He’s revamping the close by windmill, and bringing in dishes together with pork cheek and oyster pie, and excellent fish and chips. Our journalism is open for all… … and could continue to be so. Now extra than ever, the father or mother is dedicated to delivering first-rate, responsible journalism each and every day. In those terrific instances, when anxiety and uncertainty abound, the guardian’s measured, authoritative reporting has never been so important. We will stay with you, turning in exceptional journalism so we can all make critical choices approximately our lives, health and protection – based on fact, no longer fiction. We believe every one folks deserves equal access to accurate news and calm clarification. So, not like many others, we made a specific choice: to keep father or mother journalism open for all, regardless of wherein they stay or what they can find the money for to pay. This would now not be viable with out the generosity of readers, who now assist our work from one hundred eighty nations around the sector. We have upheld our editorial independence inside the face of the disintegration of traditional media – with social systems giving rise to incorrect information, the seemingly unstoppable upward thrust of massive tech and independent voices being squashed by commercial possession. The mother or father’s independence method we are able to set our personal agenda and voice our personal evaluations. Our journalism is free from industrial and political bias – in no way inspired by using billionaire owners or shareholders. This makes us exceptional. It manner we will task the effective with out worry and provide a voice to the ones less heard. Your financial support has intended we can preserve investigating, disentangling and interrogating. It has covered our independence, which has by no means been so crucial. We're so grateful.

#restaurant

[twistednuns]

February 2020

I managed to use my iPad as a second monitor for my computer. So tech savvy. Yay me!

Joking about developing a sex-based cardio programme with Manu. Powerfucking! Might help against aggression as well.

A late night phone call with Tom. Not saying much.

Making a huge pot of my grandmother’s signature veggie stew.

More Bon Appétit test kitchen videos. Chris recreating tacos. Claire making Ben&Jerry’s. Priya making her mum’s Indian curries.

Writing a letter to Lena. Drawing upside down bats (which makes them look like they’re having a wicked dance-off). Just the act of writing. I thoroughly enjoy looking at my handwriting.

Using the Salted Coconut handscrub by Lush. Especially now that I wash my hands so often when we’re working with clay at school. I feel like the peeling triggers some pressure points on my palms.

That Saturday productivity high. Cooking and preparing heaps of stuff, cleaning the windows, doing laundry.

Painting my nails like an expressionist artist.

Some portrait studies. Accidentally drawing Sirius Black.

Being really motivated to improve my Spanish. Working with Lorena, the Duolingo app and even starting my own grammar/vocabulary book.

This ultra quirky ASMR video. Also: watching videos with Erin an her boyfriend Chris. It’s amazing how well they work together. How you can almost feel their connection, how similar they are.

Carrot cake oats.

Seeing the The Darkness live again, this time with Margit. Justin’s outfit and personality, singing along, especially to Time of my Life, the band’s traditional first song after the show.

Meeting Chris. Having a Bramblette cocktail at Pusser’s. I like that place. Feels very old-timey with a rowing boat right under the ceiling. We made out in front of a tiger slide in a toy store window on our way to the next bar.

Peeling fresh carrots.

Pickling onions and making kimchi. My fermentation game is strong these days!

Looking through Dominik’s sketchbook. I loved the tree whose bark resembled a mole burrow with its underground tunnel system.

The flu. Yes, really. Fewer pupils at school. Quiet times. I’m actually surprisingly healthy. I’d guess my probiotics must play a role here… Who knows.

More sourdough experiments. Writing about it (DELICACY - a haiku. Oven-warm sourdough / salted butter, alpine cheese / and a strawberry).

Finding a really interesting list of SanFran hippie era book recommendations at the end of Robin Sloan’s Ajax Penumbra: 1969. In the mood to read Maya Angelou, Tom Wolfe, Jack Kerouac, Richard Brautigan.

Even more beautiful books: I really enjoyed Die weiße Stadt by Karolina Ramqvist, a feminist author from Sweden, and the graphic novel version of To Kill a Mockingbird. But two books that literally (well, figuratively obviously) blew my mind were Circe by Madeline Miller (mythology, loneliness, animals and plants, magic and monsters, some desperate kind of feminism, independence and strength) and Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo (magical realms, university setting, psychological depth, unexpected twists and turns). I haven’t read anything comparable in a very long time and I desperately hope that there’s more to come from these authors.

A beach collecting all the world’s single socks in The Magicians. Oh and of course seeing them break the moon. What a sight. The show is super confusing, obnoxious and absolutely fabulous at the same time. Best example: the Freaky Friday szene in which Margo and Eliot switch bodies. I love how the actors took on each other’s speech patterns and behaviour.

A new addition to my colour vocabular: celadon (a greyish green; there is a type of ceramics you’ll only see in this colour which is not surprising since the shade provides such an interesting contrast to the the earthy, rusty orange of burnt clay.)

Manu telling me that he had rarely seen people with more joy in their eyes than me (“Ich habe schon Freude in deinen Augen gesehen! So ein Leuchten kann man nicht simulieren.”) after complaining about being bored and lifeless. / Making curry with or, well, for him the other night. Drinking Liqueur 43 with cinnamon and milk. Playing the Jackbox party games for which you can use your phone as a controller.

Finding myself in a well-known sitation from the past. Lying in Frank’s bed in the early morning hours, not that tired yet, when he starts talking about his life and his depression. In English, obviously, because that’s our emotional filter. Relating, since I feel quite similar. Coming up with a suggestion for a reciprocal support system. Let’s see what we can do for each other.

Looking at travel photographs. The sea, the cenotes. Longing to go back to Mexico or Australia. Diving. Taking it all in.

Dreaming of my grandmother talking about her biggest regrets in life. Weirdly she was in a little bundle under a coffee table, much like Voldemort in the last Harry Potter movie.

My weird, weird brain. How both pleasure and pain enhance my sense of smell and increase my brain activity, almost causing hallucinations and fixations on ideas. Like geometric shapes in gloomy off-colours and a beige silicon-like surface the other night. All I could think of was a benchscraper.

Blue eyeliner.

Brainstorming three-letter-words with Frank since I’m thinking of getting personalised Nike Blazers. Sad cat. Yes but. Dat ass. Why tho.

Flying squirrels. Watching them wobble through the air. How they look like cute exhibitionist when they’re extending their limbs and thus stretching their, well, let’s just call it wings.

The fact that red cabbage has an intricate pattern like brain convolutions when you cut it open.

Talking to Sonja for the first time in over two years. What a strange person. Interesting, too. At least in homeopathic doses.

Ripe strawberries and nectarines. Oh my god. I love fruit.

Meeting Eve at Pub Quiz. She identifies as female, loves swing dance, used to be an animator and I love her style. Also, I realised that really like Betty. And Dennis wasn’t mean to me for once. I love my nerd friends <3 And I learned that Starbucks was named after the first mate in Moby Dick! Also, coincidentally they asked a question about the city where To Kill a Mockingbird takes place (Maycombe, Alabama) after I had read it the week before.

Inviting Lorena to the Botanical Gardens. I always feel very happy and very much myself when I’m there. I sometimes wish I was a gardener. Lorena was late so I walked along the Spring Path outside and it might have been the first time I’ve seen a brussels sprouts plant. Inside I learned lots of Spanish words and marveled at the incredible butterflies. The huge yellow one right behind the entrance was my favourite. Its delicate feelers were fascinating.

Washing my hands at the Keg’s bathroom. Looking into the mirror. Suddenly thinking of the perfect karaoke song… Rescue Me by Bell Book and Candle! I kept singing it for days on repeat. My neighbour must hate me (nothing new here) especially since my voice is too low for the chorus.

It isn’t hard to see how such attachment patterns can undermine mental health. Both anxious and avoidant coping have been linked to a heightened risk of anxiety, depression, loneliness, eating and conduct disorders, alcohol dependence, substance abuse and hostility. The way to treat these problems, say attachment theorists, is in and through a new relationship. On this view, the good therapist becomes a temporary attachment figure, assuming the functions of a nurturing mother, repairing lost trust, restoring security, and instilling two of the key skills engendered by a normal childhood: the regulation of emotions and a healthy intimacy. // An interesting article on attachment styles and why theraphy works; it makes me want to learn more about attachment theory. This School of Life video is a nice addition as well.

That dream. About a book shop modeled after my picture of Penumbra’s 24-hour bookstore. There was an old man in a very narrow but high-ceilinged room full of books. There was no light source except for moonlight or some street lights. There were loads of stairs, very steep, leading to the back of the house. Upstairs the man would set out cat food and on the rooftop there was an old sailing boat. One day the man decided to open the door to the roof and let visitors see the ship, much like a museum; perhaps to attract customers. However, in the next night a cat-shaped ghost appeared who reminded me quite a lot of Kot Behemoth character in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. The ghost was not amused about the old man’s decision and took away his key, a big golden one adorned with a red ribbon.

Toasted sesame makes pretty much every dish so much better.

Watching High Fidelity with gorgeous Zoe Kravitz (I adore her effortless style and her outfits), getting in the mood for making a playlist and listening to more music in general. There are all these great songs out there I forgot about.

Remembering the xkcd storm chaser comics.

Making a wicked good batch of Pho for Tom.

Spending a nice evening with Alex at Shamrock. Singing along to American Boy by Estelle. Confirming the hypothesis that the nerdy, quiet ones usually have a freak streak. That moment in the morning. Eye contact and kegel exercises.

Karaoke with Margit and Betty. Meeting Manu’s doppelganger. Same type, looks, voice. Eerie.

Making a BA Gourmet Makes meme for Steffen after he had passed his law examps. Strangely Gaby kinda looked like him after I was done with it.

Saturday morning in bed. Reading comics and graphic novels. Fresh bedclothes, surrounded by books. Since it was February 29 I thought about leap years and asked a few friends what their inner seven-year-old would have done that day (based on the thought experiment that your birthday was on February 29 and you’d age in 4-year-steps which would divide your age by 4 obviously).      

I came up with: visiting grandma / eating Cini-Minis / falling asleep with my face buried in a cat / beating my neighbour Anna at Memory / drawing while listening to a Bibi Blocksberg cassette.

Alex said he’d have been outside all day, building a snow igloo. Not noticing his mum telling him to come to dinner. If the weather had been bad he would have played with his dinosaur collection. His inner 7-year-old was a hopeless dreamer who got agitated whenever his parents had a fight. Who came home late from school every day because he forgot about time when he was talking to his friend next to a hedge with thorns that looked like tiny airplanes.

Lena said she would have been outside all day long, playing in the mud with the neighbours’ kids. Of course.

#things i love #present perfect #personal #february 2020 #february #2020

[cursewoodrecap]

Session 6.3 Addendum: The Eldritch Cookbook

We took a cookbook from the Astronomer’s house, and found that it was, in our DM’s words, “An eldritch descent into madness, in the form of a recipe blog.”

Here are a few excerpts from the personal annotated cookbook of Adelaide Klimt, the hired cook for the Astronomer’s artist colony.

Twenty-Clove Chicken

When Doctor Alicia first joined us, I was excited to try to combine my cooking with her Alchemy. However, her rude and uncouth behavior soon put such thoughts out of my mind. Since working for Mister Vlemisk, I have grown accustomed to feeding an eccentric crowd, but Alicia’s lack of respect for any work beyond her own (and, seemingly, Mister Vlemisk’s) is positively Shocking. She fills the house with the horrible smell of her lab, and then has the nerve to complain that others are being too loud. The other day, she commandeered my kitchen all afternoon, leaving the place a horrible mess. When I confronted her in her lab, she offered only the most basic of apologies, and then told me to “Use Garlic sparingly, as it upsets my stomach”. Anyway, dearest Doctor Alicia, I dedicate this recipe to you.

-

Kevan-Style Minced Venison Pelmini

With the Curse upon us, Mister Vlemisk has grown increasingly withdrawn, spending more and more time in his observatory, gazing at the stars all night, sleeping and scribbling notes all day. We bring him food, but he eats little of it. He has grown very thin and pale, and I worry about his health. We all worry about him. The Sculptor, Karl Schossman, thought that perhaps a hint of nostalgia would entice Artyom out of his malaise. Artyom grew up in Keva, and had once mentioned eating Pelmini as a child, so, I went to the town and interviewed merchants until I was able to assemble what I believe to be an authentic Gourmet Pelmini that can be re-created with ingredients available here in Valdia.

-

Nightmare Eggs The house has grown restless. Every night I toss and turn, plagued by strange dreams. I dream of the Stars, of  horrible beasts rending space like flesh. Last night, I dreamt that I wandered through a city, towers of impossible heights and scale emerging from a waveless ocean of strange water.  I woke up to the birdsong outside, dripping with sweat. What’s worse, I am not the only one. The whole house complains of strange dreams. Perhaps the curse is upon us. As I stumbled down to the kitchen, I was half-asleep, like part of me was still wandering through that horrible city, before I noticed what i was cooking.  I had intended to make an ordinary breakfast, hearty porridge, toast, and eggs. However, I barely noticed what I was doing, and by the time I had mixed the smoked fish in with the eggs, it was too late. Still, It turned out delicious, and so I’ve spent the better part of the day trying to re-create the recipe. As far as I can tell, this is it: -

Twice-Blessed Soup

Master Vlemisk emerged yesterday, and told us that he has received Inspiration from his observations in the Stars. He has a proposal for a Grand Collaboration, an “Earth-Shattering” work of Art. While I may have been hired rather than invited, I consider myself as much an Artist as anybody in this house, and so, I have decided to support their endeavor. Master Vlemisk said that the artists would need their strength, so I have devised a recipe that will give them the energy to complete their part of the task. As this Collaboration, whatever it is, will certainly require both the inspiration of Guile and the skill of Lethe, I have named this the Twice-Blessed Soup, it is, appropriately enough, based on a fusion of two recipes. One I learned from a Carpenter who came to fix the house some years ago, the other I learned from a man who claimed to be part of a traveling circus. Whether he was or not, he tricked me into trading a half-pound of high-quality pepper for a “Rare and Exotic Spice” that turned out to be simple dried parsley dyed with crushed blueberry, so I consider Guile’s hand is well in this recipe.

-

Star-Signed Cake

Master Vlemisk brought the Artists up to his observatory the other day to show them his “Vision”, and to outline the Collaboration. I don’t know what he said, but it must have been inspiring. Since then, they have all been working tirelessly. I’ll admit, I don’t understand much of what they’re talking about, and the designs seem largely abstract, which surprises me, as Mister Vlemisk has always seemed to prefer more traditional styles. Regardless, I have created the following to serve at the celebratory meal after the Collaboration is complete.

-

Herb-Roasted Chicken

I learned this recipe from my mother, and cooking it always makes me calm. I’m in need of calm these days. The Collaboration has begun in earnest. They are carving and painting. I once thought their designs merely Abstract, but, looking at them makes my eyes water., Anna and Josephine have seemingly been playing their music for three days straight. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, but I could swear they are physically changing as well. 

I asked Artyom if this was all necessary, and he assured me it was. He said he would explain everything tomorrow. 

So, while I try to get to sleep over the sound of that music, here’s my latest take on Herb-Roasted Chicken.

-

Boar’s Flank Stew

The Astronomer explained everything, it’s more wondrous and horrifying than I could ever imagine. I don’t fully understand everything, but I know enough to see the importance of this work. Some of the other servants refused to accept it, and had to be let go. They intend to leave in the morning. I was worried, but The Astronomer assured me that they wouldn’t be a problem. “The Hounds always Hunger,” he said. 

Anyway, that got me thinking about what I like when I’m hungry. Stew!  Anyway, here’s a recipe.

-

Green Sky Curry

The Astronomer rewarded me the other day. I ventured through the portal and saw the place between worlds, and from that place, I saw the weaving infinite, the places touched by the Key before it’s cruel mutilation by the Tyrant’s Hound. My mind was opened. I saw the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. I added my tears to the waters of the Drowned City, of what that great nexus had become without the Key’s guidance. From there, the paths took me to a field under an emerald green sky. I wandered that field for hours, collecting and sampling the plants. From those plants, I have extracted a spice that serves as the central flavor in this curry.

#session recap #addendum #holzog #the key

[burlybanner]

Syzygy -6

Syzygy - An AU of Infundo (post-Infundo Chronicles).

Chapter 6: S**t Gets Too Real

Chapter 6 Summary:  Tony Stark’s a genius. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t.

 Gentle warning: Slob stuff and multiple stuffings ahoy.

Link to Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

** Surprisingly, Bruce got hungry pretty damn quick after Hulk's stuffing. He didn't think he'd feel hungry ever again but after eating a banana he'd soaked in a double portion of his gainer solution, his stomach roared to life soon after waking. Being so suddenly and frightfully hungry shocked him, but thank the chubby powers-that-be that Steve had a huge country breakfast waiting. Bruce gobbled multiple servings of buttery Belgian waffles soaked in syrup, several donuts, half a coffee cake from his favorite bakery, and a couple of spinach mushroom quiches.

Which, to be honest,  was nothing near lunch a few hours later at a private buffet ("to celebrate new growth," Tony'd told the manager). Bruce had rolled his eyes. Of course Tony said something that stupid out loud. They'd brought some of the gainer formula to the buffet, shook it over Bruce’s food, and Bruce tore into the portions like a bull in a glass factory. And it surprised him. It took an hour of heavy gorging before he almost felt full and he'd never eaten that much for that long before. But it felt...great. No, more than that. He felt incredibly pleased. Sated. Beyond high. 

His pants got so tight at the restaurant he'd had to undo his belt.

His fullness turned him on and he begged Tony and Steve to blow him in the limo, on the way back home. But they weren’t total heathens; they waited until they returned for stuffing sex, 

where one of his boyfriends fed him sickeningly sweet desserts while the other blew him, effectively creating double orgasms. 

God. They'd been ridiculously horny. Insatiable rabbits.

And then there was dinner. Holy shit, dinner turned into another orgy when they mixed the day's remaining formula into his meals. After several dishes and baskets of rolls Bruce couldn't suck in his gut to fasten his pants. His stomach bloated and swelled in his lap as he slurped down sweet sriracha chicken,  Thai coconut curry, and on and on. Food continued coming as fast as he ate it and he barely choked one meal down before the next course presented itself. He'd spilled a ton of food down his shirt, but he didn't care. He mindlessly gobbled everything up like a sloppy, greedy piggy wallowing in mess.

Then they sated themselves with sex. Again and again.

Bruce's body quivered from the memories and his dick jumped in his pants. He wondered how the rest of the night would go which dampened his enthusiasm. He had to fall asleep and his body would be taken over, forced to consume whatever Hulk desired. Thinking about Hulk's "meal" worked like ice water on his libido.

Bruce sighed and nervously squeezed his stomach. "You really found everything?"

"Sure did, Pooh."

"I would've...no. I wouldn't' have asked. I can't imagine what you went through to get it. After everything I ate today, I thought you would've been sick of catering to me."

Tony smiled gently and gave Bruce a quick kiss on the lips while slipping on a pair of sweatpants and his nano shirt. "For you? I'd buy the moon, Pooh Bear. Besides, today's good eatin' was to slick you up for tonight. You don't think Steve and I noticed your apprehension? Perish the thought. You're stuck with us."

"And how," Steve sighed, coming up behind him. Steve was still floating in a post-coital glow and his high was infectious. He wrapped his arms around Bruce's shoulders and gently swayed him side to side, palming Bruce’s spare tire while bouncing his heavy overhang. "Betcha gained a ton today, Porkpie."

Bruce shuddered with lust and kissed Steve's arm. "We'll see."

"We still have the bonus round," Tony told them. He snapped his fingers. "Bruce, bed. Steve, get him sleepy." He checked his watch. "I've got caterers to catch."

Bruce suddenly perked up. "They're here? Already?"

"In an hour. But I need to set up for Hulk. He likes his food ready and he likes getting messy, as you know."

Bruce snorted softly. "I saw."

"I've got a few things prepared. No worries, Brucie, it's not about you now. Rest up for the nightly pig-out."

Bruce chewed the inside of his cheek. "Be careful, yeah?"

"Always, Brucie Bear. Always." Tony winked and skittered out, but Bruce wasn't convinced. Tony could be notoriously bad at self-preservation and he'd need all of his skills for the Hulk.

Please be careful, he thought as a silent litany, even as Steve kissed his neck and led him to their bed.

**

"Yeah, lay it out."

The caterer and their helpers looked confused. "On the--"

"On the tarp, yeah. Line up the steno and servers in a line. The tarp's fireproof," Tony explained, although he doubted they thought that was the weird thing. "Set it up. I'll take care of the rest."

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

Fortunately they didn't bat an eye. He figured they'd seen weirder things. Probably from him, come think.

He gave the catering crew time to plate everything but kept checking his watch. He still had to prep before Bruce showed up.

When they lit the last steno he clapped his hands. Only one startled. Good. "Awesome. All finished? Wonderful. Someone'll drop off your gear tomorrow, or you can bill us. Jarvis, see 'em out. Thanks." He shoved a bunch of hundreds at the nearest person.

"If you would, please follow the lights as I direct you to the exits." A few of the newbies blinked around the room, but most of them knew the drill; they'd dealt with Jarvis before and knew their way out.

When the last one left the kitchen, Tony let out a slow puff of air and stilled his breathing. "How're we on time, J?"

"The last caterer will leave the building in approximately two-point-six minutes, sir. From what I've been observing with Captain Rogers, I estimate Doctor Banner will enter NREM sleep in approximately six minutes."

"Perfect. You clear on the plan?"

Tony could almost hear Jarvis sigh. The minute pauses mimicked one enough times. "Of course, sir. Although if I may interject?"

"Shoot." Tony darted around, finishing the set up before Bruce-Hulk lumbered in.

"I assume Doctor Banner will want--"

"Nope, no," Tony said, cutting off his AI. "This is a need-to-know op only and Banner doesn't need to know. Not until there's conclusive proof. You cut the feed on my mark, got it? Don't go all HAL on me."

"Perish the thought, sir." Jarvis would be chuckling, if he were human. "But I felt I needed to voice my concerns, considering your current relationship status."

"Duly noted. Bruce will...well." Tony gestured flippantly. "Either way we'll know conclusively and I'll apologize to Bruciekins tomorrow. I'll have to drag the rest out of him later anyway."

"Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission?"

"You got it, J."

**

Within ten minutes of Tony's talk with Jarvis heavy feet slapped the kitchen floor. Not as heavy as Hulk's actual feet but it wasn't Bruce's footfalls either; Bruce's tread was normally softer and shuffled more. The new steps were definitely steps of purpose and power.

"Hey, Hulk, it's Tony. I'm over here."

"Tin Man?"

Bruce - no, Hulk - poked his head into the formal dining room. It was damn weird, but Tony had no problem differentiating between Hulk taking Bruce's body, and Bruce himself.

"Yeah, it's me. Have a seat. I got your grub."

Hulk snuffled and snorted the air, and plopped heavily next to Tony. "Smells good. What's that?" He poked a server, and Tony lifted it.

"Twice fried ostrich wings, like you requested. Cajun spiced, using a seasoning mix from that guy you remembered on TV."

"Prudhomme magic," Hulk rumbled, and Tony stopped short from reeling in surprise. No. Definitely not stupid. At all.

He'd have to keep on his toes.

"That's right. Chef Prudhomme's legendary seasonings." He watched as Hulk took an ostrich wing and sniffed it cautiously. Laughing, he stuck half in his mouth and crunched it, bones and all.

"Good. Good ostrich!"

“Some of the best chefs in Louisiana fried it up and sent it to you. We've also got your--" he tore off another lid, "--deep fried Rocky Mountain Oysters, swimming in white gravy, and..." he removed another server lid and stopped short of shuddering. “Crocodile and alligator tripe, simmering in an alligator head with the eyeballs still attached. Just like you wanted."

Hulk grunted his approval, scooped a hand in the warm stew, and slurped it. "Good. Very good. Where's main dish?"

Tony sighed deeply. "Big Green, you've got some unique tastes and I'm diggin' the vibe. But just know for Bruce's sake we couldn't serve it to you raw."

Hulk slammed his fist on the floor, but it was still Bruce's fist. So Tony called it a win despite his tantrum. "Cap said anything!"

"Yeah, he did. But think about it. You wanna do Bruce a solid, right? Make him big and cuddly, like you?"

Hulk snorted, but folded his arms in a childish pout. "Yeah."

"And you wanna make sure you can do this again, right?"

"Hmph."

"Then you gotta do right by him. You're in his body, so take it easy." Tony removed the last lid. "Ta-daa...frog and rattlesnake stir fry. Not quite raw but as close to raw as we could make it without making Bruce sick."

Hulk grabbed a handful of the hot dish and shoved it in his mouth. "Banner not get sick," he muttered. A frog leg tumbled from his lips as he talked with a full mouth. "Banner has Hulk's immunity. No poison can kill Hulk!"

"True, true," Tony said. "But it can hurt Bruce temporarily. He wouldn't want that, and he'd kinda hate you for it."

"Mm." Tony could tell Hulk was mulling it over as he continued shoving the food into his mouth with his bare hands. The last server had the deep fried andouille sausage with crayfish gumbo in it (crayfish heads still attached, of course), but Tony figured Hulk would get to that eventually. It was definitely the messiest of all the dishes. Who knew Hulk was such a foodie of weird foods?

"Andrew Zimmern ain't got nothin' on you," Tony muttered.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing, Hulk. Go back to feasting."

Hulk nodded vigorously and scooped fistfulls of one dish, then the other, and poured them into his mouth. A lot fell to the tarp, but Hulk scraped up the scraps. Waste not, want not, he supposed.

After five minutes of watching Hulk develop an easy eating rhythm Tony licked his lips. "Hey, Jarv," he said quietly.

Jarvis relayed his response to Tony's hidden earpiece: "Understood, sir."

Although Bruce pinned a GoPro to his robe Tony'd hacked the camera days ago. He had Jarvis loop the feed so it'd show Hulk chowing down. He knew he'd only have a few minutes before it'd look suspicious, so he had to hope he got everything he needed from Hulk in one take.

"Hulkie," he began. "You love Tin Man, right? Love all this great food?"

"Mm. Yes. Good food. More tomorrow?"

"Sure. Let me know what you want before we wrap up tonight. Can't promise you everything, but we'll do what we can. Like the rattlesnake. That fair?"

Hulk snorted and dumped a handful of the gumbo in his mouth. Which, of course, dripped down on everything. "Is okay. But not great."

Tony chuckled. "I get it," he said, then sobered. "I also get what you're not telling Bruce. You're workin' the system, Big Green. Not sure I'm okay with that, and I know Bruce won't be."

Hulk didn't respond, but continued stuffing his face.

Good. He knows I'm on to him.

"Pull back on the control shit - you're mucking around with Bruce's subconscious more than he's aware; I saw you at dinner today. Don't deny it."

Hulk laughed, deep and throaty. "Fooled you. And Banner."

"A little, yeah. But I know that's not all - you're not dumb but neither am I. You helped Bruce with that gainer cocktail, didn't you? I'm guessing there's more junk in there than Bruce realizes."

Hulk stilled, and for the first time that night Tony wondered if he'd have to activate the nanosuit. "I see what Banner sees," he murmured. His voice was oddly calm, oddly quiet. "But Banner doesn't see what I see. He doesn't know what I know."

Bingo.

"It's all an act, isn't it?"

"No."

A chill came over Tony and his brain overclocked. "Shit...Hulk isn't the only one in Bruce's head, is he?"

He almost smiled, but the expression wasn't Hulk's. Wasn't Bruce's, either. "Are you going to tell on us?"

Don't. Don't freak out. Don't. Freak. "Depends." Tony was surprised at how calm he kept his voice. "Who are you, and what are you planning?"

The Person sighed softly and briefly brushed away food from Bruce's robe. "Actually, I like being left out of things. I work behind the scenes, and I don't wish any harm. I'm actually the one helping maintain control over Hulk these days...I suppose in a pinch you could call me the lecturer-researcher construct." He paused, tilting his chin before sharply nodding.  "Call me Professor."

Tony swallowed. "Professor? Like when Bruce works at NYU?"

Professor hummed. "I'm present at any event where he's teaching, or when he learns something new. But honestly, I'm harmless. You've seen me before - I was the first to touch the Tesseract."

Tony sat back on his heels and scrutinized Professor sharply. "Huh. Yeah..." he gestured lamely at Professor's face. "I can see it now, a little. I remember that expression." Burned forever in his brain, now.

Sighing heavily Tony licked his lips, pausing at whatever seventh hell revelation this was. "So, um." He shook his head. He wanted a drink. Several. Despite cutting back for his boyfriends' sakes he wanted to drown his brain in a tank of whiskey. "Where...?"

"Where does this put the four...hum. Five of us?"

Tony nodded lamely. "You outflanked me. Royally."

"Did I?" Professor seemed to take that in stride, and smiled coyly to himself. "It wasn't my intention. I simply revealed my hand because it was timely. There wasn't anything left to hide." He tilted his head and gazed at Tony. "It doesn't change anything. Of course you should tell Banner and yes, even Captain Rogers, but do ask yourself if this is the right time. Could be fairly disastrous for the three of you if your timing's off." Tony narrowed his eyes slightly. Was that a veiled threat--?

Professor stretched and yawned, and held his hands above his head for a beat. "I'm actually quite pleased Banner wishes to become immobile, Tony." He smiled softly and ran his hands over Bruce's swollen belly, imitating a mother-to-be's reverence. The image burned Tony's retinas and he felt sick - maybe a bit horrified. "I'm looking forward to reading all the books I've yet to read and I'm glad for the time I'll have to myself."

Professor checked his wrist, as if viewing an invisible watch. "By the way, you should tell Jarvis to turn the camera feed back on. It's been far longer than five minutes."

Tony snorted. "You sly motherfucker. You knew all along."

"Of course I did." He winked and saluted Tony with two fingers. "Be seeing you, Tony."

Tony watched as Bruce's body shook before returning to shoving food in its face.

"Good food! Hulk wants more tomorrow."

"Sure thing, Big Guy," Tony whispered. He let out a shuddering breath and ran a hand down his face. "Jarv, tell me you recorded all that."

"Yes."

The AI's response was curt and to the point; he probably had as much to think about as Tony did.

"What the ever living fuck."

"Sir. Doctor Banner's Person was correct in one sense. It's been far too long, and there's bound to be an interrupting glitch in the feed if closely scrutinized."

"Yeah. I know." Tony licked his lips and made a circular motion in the air. "Go ahead and turn it back to black, J. Shit. I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna say tomorrow. Hell, I dunno if I can keep up pretenses tonight."

"Might I suggest trying your best, sir? Especially as we're going live in three...two--"

"Shit."

But somehow Tony plastered his showman's grin to mask his shell-shocked face pretending for all the world he didn't do a Prince of Bel-Air, Freaky Friday flip. He watched Hulk eat most, if not all, of the dishes and he whistled for the 'bots to clean up the mess before guiding Hulk to the shower and repeating what Steve had done the previous night. But his mind was split and he knew he couldn't maintain the act for long. Both Bruce and Steve'd know something was up but he wasn't sure how, or when, he'd tell them.

God. He hated covert shit.

Ch. 7

#polyamory #chubby bruce fic #infundoau #chubby bruce banner #steve rogers #tony stark #bruce banner #american pi #science bros #hulk #stark spangled banner #bhm #chubby kink #syzygy #starkspangledbanner syzygy #professor hulk

[rebeccareviews]

The Red Boat Fish Sauce Cookbook written by Cuong Pham with Tien Nguyen and Diep Tran with photos by Oriana Koren

The Red Boat Fish Sauce Cookbook written by Cuong Pham with Tien Nguyen and Diep Tran with photos by Oriana Koren is a vibrant, informative, and fascinating collection of delicious recipes. I loved learning about Vietnam’s culture and cuisine, the author’s life, as well as general cooking practices. The book features interesting and often unique recipes for dishes including stews, soups, sandwiches, and drinks. Who knew that Red Boat Fish Sauce is so versatile!

This book is divided into chapters which include phamily pantry; breakfast; appetizers and snacks; salads and vegetables; kho (braises); seafood; pork; chicken and beef; feasts; sweets and drinks; pickles, sauces, condiments and master stocks; and menu planning. There is also a fascinating introduction which includes the author’s family history, the origins of the company. and the fish sauce production process. The addition of family pictures as well as those of the fish sauce making process and even the factory workers are a great personal touch.

I love this cookbook! It is a fascinating and unique blend of food, culture, and history. I particularly love the stories: from Pham’s history to the personal family anecdotes, the fish sauce making process, and even the anchovy catching process! Pham teaches us so much about Vietnamese culture, cuisine, and general cookery.

The book features clear and approachable language. The recipes are meticulously detailed and many include useful tips. Each recipe begins with a write-up. Some are brief while many are lengthy but all are interesting and useful. Through the write-ups, you learn about the tasting notes of the recipe, helpful tips, Vietnamese culture, and even family stories. I particularly like the guides on important things like deboning a fish, using bones to make stocks, as well as assembling your own bánh mì with various fillings and pickles. I even love that there is a section where Pham guides us through a bountiful day of eating in Sài Gòn!

The book features typical recipes like chicken wings, pasta marinara (livened up with fish sauce, of course!) and seafood chowder. There are also favorites like Brisket Phở, Bún Chả Hanoi (noodle salad with pork patties), Bò Kho (beef stew), Cà Ri Gà (Chicken Curry), and Honeycomb Cake (no actual honey involved!). I loved seeing lesser known recipes like Salted Meyer Lemon Soda (spiced up with Thai chiles!), and Canh Chua (Pineapple Catfish Soup).

Most of the ingredients are fairly accessible and moderately inexpensive. Essential pantry staples include pork, shrimp, lemongrass, coconut cream, and coconut milk. However, many of the recipes are time and labour intensive and also require lots of ingredients. Therefore, this book is more suited for readers with some kitchen experience.

The book’s overall design is fun and fitting! I love the beautiful eye-catching colours and the wonderful fonts. I do wish more of the recipes had accompanying pictures. However, the included pictures are clean and bright with wonderfully simple staging that effectively highlights the gorgeous food.

But, I wish the book was organized a little more comprehensively. I also would have liked to see more variation in the dessert and drink offerings.

The Red Boat Fish Sauce Cookbook is a wonderful and delicious recipe collection which celebrates the iconic fish sauce as well as Vietnamese cuisine and culture. This book was truly informative and unique. I cannot wait to whip up some of these unique creations! This fascinating book will be a perfect gift for the experienced chef in your life!

Thank you to NetGalley and Mariner Books for this book in exchange for an honest review.

🐟🐟🐟🐟🐟 out of 5 fishes!

#THE RED BOAT FISH SAUCE COOKBOOK #CUONG PHAM #cooking #cookbook #cookbooks #book review #NetGalley #books #BOOK #book reviews #food #culture

[vcg73]

Hummel Holidays 2017: It’s a Date

Hummel Holidays Prompt #2: Baking

Rare Pair: Kurt and Elliott

~*~*~*~*~

“Oh m’Gaw! Dese’r amaving!  Wemom?”

 Kurt rolled his eyes and passed his friend the glass of cold milk he had been sipping from as he worked. Elliott had walked in and made a beeline for the array of fluffy golden cookies sitting on the cooling racks, promptly popping one into his mouth with no regard for the fact that it had come out of the oven only ten seconds earlier. He was currently attempting to chew the hot cookie without touching it to his tongue or the tender roof of his mouth, but still taste it and talk at the same time.

 “Lemon, yes, and you might want to give this next batch a minute to cool before you try one,” Kurt advised, placing a second pan full of generously chocolate chipped dough balls into the oven.

 Chugging the remainder of the milk down along with a second sample from the racks, Elliott licked his lips and grinned as he handed back the empty glass. “You didn’t tell me we were baking today.”

 He snorted. “We, huh? I’m pretty sure baking involves more than just scarfing down the end result. And stop eating all my cookies! I’m making these for the homeless shelter.”

 Elliott’s greedy fingers paused halfway to grabbing another, cheeks flushing a little. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Guess I should’ve figured that since One Three Hill is providing the entertainment for tonight’s party. Uh, well then, pass me an apron and point me toward the supplies. I’ll mix up a batch of snickerdoodles while you pour us some more milk.”

 Unable to resist the winsome smile that came along with this offer, Kurt nodded and rummaged through the plastic packing crate that held his glassware. Picking one with tiny flowers frosted into the glass that Rachel had picked up at a flea market, he opened the fridge to pour their drinks and said, “I didn’t even know you knew how to make snickerdoodles. I haven’t had those in years.”

 “Oh, man, they’re the best! They’re my mom’s specialty. She taught me the recipe when I turned ten. Her family has lived in New England since, like, the Mayflower and this recipe has been handed down through generations. Today only a handful of people in the entire world know it!”

 Kurt grinned, strongly suspecting that his leg was being pulled. “Well, then!” he said, handing over a fresh glass of milk. “Should I leave the room? Put on a blindfold? Pinch my nose shut so I don’t accidentally guess the secret ingredient?”

 “I think I can trust you. But just to make sure…”  Elliott’s face went solemn, but his eyes continued to sparkle with fun as he held up his right hand and offered Kurt’s recipe book with the other, waiting until Kurt obligingly placing his own right hand on the book and raised his left. “Kurt Hummel, do you solemnly swear upon pain of burnt cookies and fallen layer cakes never to divulge this secret to The Food Network, or any other for-profit entity?”

 Struggling not to laugh, Kurt forced his features into an equally solemn set and nodded. “I so swear.”

 “Great!  Okay then, we’ll need a cup of butter, a cup of sugar, half a cup of brown sugar, two eggs, three cups of flour, baking soda, salt, cream of tartar, and cinnamon. I’ll also need a saucepan and a couple of mixing bowls.”

 With a nod, Kurt gathered the requested items. Most were already on hand since he had been baking for the past hour. Since his favorite mixing bowl already had chocolate chip dough in it, he quickly washed up the bowl he’d used for the lemon cookies and dug out a large but slightly worn out spare one that he’d brought from Ohio. “Pan’s over the stove. What do you need it for?”

 “Because that is the secret ingredient,” he explained, wriggling out of his leather jacket, leaving himself clad in an artistically ragged gray sleeveless t-shirt, and throwing on Kurt’s borrowed apron, which bore the words ‘Sit back and relax.  You must be exhausted from watching me do everything!’ Glancing down at the words, he laughed. “Feeling a little passive aggressive, were we?”

 Kurt blushed. “Just a little. It made me feel better, but the others didn’t even get the joke.”

 “Figures,” he grunted. “Okay, so we start with the butter.”

He measured out a cup of butter and transferred it into the saucepan. While Kurt watched with interested eyes, he turned the stove on to medium heat and began whisking the butter with slow even strokes. He continued this patiently for three or four minutes until the butter was melted and slightly frothy, emitting a pleasant almost nutty aroma as it browned. Then he poured the butter into the larger bowl to cool and began mixing in the sugars, cream of tartar, and eggs together with it. In the second bowl, he blended his dry ingredients together, then gradually blended the two.

 “You’re good at that,” Kurt commented, not even bothering to pretend that he was not admiring the play of strong muscles in Elliott’s exposed shoulder as he beat the dough together with firm pressure, preferring to stir the ingredients by hand rather than borrow Kurt’s hand mixer.

 “Thanks.” Preening a little, he deliberately flexed his arm a little more. He and Kurt had never dated, but a little flirting between friends was always welcome. “Could you sprinkle some white sugar and cinnamon onto a sheet of waxed paper for me?”

 Kurt nodded, pausing a moment to take his baking batch out of the oven as the timer dinged and transferring them to the racks. He quickly shifted the lemon cookies into a waiting tin lined with a paper towel, leaving the lid off to allow them to finish cooling. Once that was done, he quickly cleared a space and laid out the requested waxed paper, covering it with a small amount of cinnamon sugar. While this was done, Elliott had been molding the cookie dough into little walnut sized globes. He took each dough ball and rolled it through the sugar, setting the finished ones in a neat row until they could be baked, since Kurt still had another two pans of chocolate chip ready to go and there would be no more baking sheets available until one of them had hands free to wash the newly emptied one.

 An hour later, the two-man baking team had finished their creations and sampled at least one of each variety of cookie, leaving dozens for the enjoyment of those attending tonight’s party.

 “Dani will be so sorry she decided to meet us at the shelter instead of coming by early,” Kurt said, dipping a snicker-doodle in his milk, frowning a bit at the resultant spice decorating his drink, then shrugging and simply belting back what was left to wash down the last of the treat.

 “I know, man. She missed out,” Elliott agreed, licking his lips happily.

 Kurt held out a hand for Elliott’s empty glass, taking them to the sink to finishing washing up the last of the dishes. Kurt was a ‘clean as you go’ baker and his kitchen was far from the disaster area Elliott’s would have been had they done this project at his place.  The application of a wet sponge and a little scrubbing, and the counters were also immaculately clean. Only the waiting tins of warm, neatly arranged cookies gave proof of the afternoon’s activity.

 Elliott shook his head, admiring the almost military precision of his friend’s baking style. “You know, we should do this again,” he said. “Maybe cook something next time. I mean, I don’t really know how to make anything except stews and curries, but I’ll bet you could teach me. If you were okay with that.”

 A big smile met this suggestion. Kurt looked like he’d just been given a wonderful present, clasping his hands and bouncing up on his toes with sudden excitement. “Of course! I have loads of cook books with recipes we could try. Some of them I’ve wanted to make for ages, but there never seemed much point in going to all that effort just for myself.”

 “What about your roommates?”

 He shrugged. “I’ve offered, but Santana isn’t a very adventurous eater, and I never know from week to week whether Rachel will be vegetarian, or vegan, or protein only, or all carbs. One week she decided out of the blue that she was going to do a liquid-only cleanse that she had read about in a magazine. It was supposed to last for a month, but three days into it, I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of her going to town on leftover Chinese food, three different kinds of chips, and my newly purchased pint of strawberry-cheesecake ice cream.”

 Elliott laughed. He could picture that easily. For such a tiny woman, Rachel could really pack it away when she was in the mood. “Well, I’ll try anything once. Let’s make a pact to get together once a week and try out a brand new recipe. Something neither of us has tried before.”

 Kurt beamed. “How about Fridays?  Friday Night Dinner was a staple in my house growing up. We would always make the time to get together, no matter what, to have a sit down meal together on that night. I tried to bring the tradition back with my friends, but it only lasted a few meals before everyone started begging off for various reasons. Do you want to try it?”

 Pleased that Kurt was willing to share a special tradition with him, perhaps in return for sharing his own family recipe, Elliott said, “It’s a date.”

 Unexpectedly, Kurt blushed and turned away. “It’s getting late. Maybe we’d better get all these cookies packed up. I was planning to call for a ride instead of trying to get all these safely to the shelter on the subway.”

 “Good idea,” he said, wondering at that sudden mood shift. Kurt’s reaction to his flippant use of the word ‘date’ had given him pause. He considered just letting it go, but . . . somehow he did not want to let it go. “Kurt?”

 “Yeah?”

 Elliott took a deep breath, hoping he was not about to make a mistake and cause the rest of the night to become horribly awkward. “I had a really good time today.”

 “Me too,” he agreed with a smile.

 “Uh, yeah, so I was thinking. That is . . . I mean, I always have a good time when I’m with you.”

 Kurt’s expression softened, becoming almost wistful. “So do I.”

 “Right, so . . . do you think it’s weird for best friends to . . .”

 “To . . .” Kurt repeated, brows raising as he encouraged Elliott to finish the thought.

 Elliott paused. It was now or never. He wasn’t seeing anyone, and Kurt had been single for a decent enough span of time not to seem like he was pouncing on a vulnerable heart. He had always told himself that Kurt wasn’t his type, but Elliott knew that the sheer number of times he had given himself that reminder pretty much proved it a false claim.

 “Would you be willing to go out with me some time?” he blurted. “Not as friends. Or, I mean, of course we’re still friends, but . . . as more than friends?”

 Kurt blinked, looking as though he was not quite sure he was hearing correctly. Then he smiled a little shyly and said, “You mean, you and me; like a, go out together, do something fun, kiss at the end of the evening . . . type of thing?”

 Elliott grinned, liking the idea a lot now that he was hearing it out loud. “Exactly. Maybe not Friday, because I’m already having recipe night with my best bud on Friday, but how about Saturday?”

 Laughing at his words, but clearly touched that Elliott did not want to chance losing their friendship by throwing dating into the mix, Kurt ducked his head and said, “That sounds great. You told me you’d been wanting to visit the Museum of Modern Art, right? Maybe we could go together. Or, is that a dumb idea?”

 “I think it’s a great idea,” he said, already picturing the two of them strolling slowly hand in hand through the halls of the great structure. “And maybe get some coffee and take a snowy walk through Central Park afterward.”

 Kurt’s eyes shone at the mere mention of something so unabashedly romantic. “I’d love to.”

 “Then we definitely have a date.” Wondering how he was going to contain his sudden giddy joy all evening, Elliott reached out and took Kurt’s hand, giving it a little squeeze before letting go and returning to the task of packing up the goodies for tonight’s party.

 Stepping next to him, so that they stood side by side at the counter, Kurt accepted the cookie tin he was offered and settled it into a bag he’d brought out earlier for transporting. One by one, they packed the bag in this way, taking their time.  They did not say anything more about their sudden change in status from best friends to possibly-more-than-friends, but the silence that stretched between them felt comfortable. Every so often, their arms would bump and they would exchange a smile that somehow felt both feel warmer and closer than it ever had before.

 “I won’t do it until Saturday night,” Elliott remarked as the last tin was packed and the bag was closed up for travel. He pulled his jacket back on and accepted the warm blue scarf that Kurt held out with a scolding little cluck of his tongue, tucking it into place around his neck and down the front of his coat as he zipped the leather securely. He then lifted the strap of the cookie bag and settled it on his shoulder without asking, giving Kurt a chance to don his own coat and scarf and lock the door behind them.

 “Do what?” Kurt asked as they started down the stairs together. His building had an elevator, but it was a risky proposition at the best of times.

 Shifting the bag from one shoulder to the other, Elliott reached over and threaded his fingers through Kurt’s. “I was just thinking back there that I’d really like to kiss you, and that I felt kind of stupid for not realizing before today how much I wanted to do that.”

 Kurt smiled and ducked his head. “Oh, that.”

 “Yeah, that, and then I thought that I can’t do it. Not until Saturday night when I take you home. Or you take me home, whichever way it ends up. Because I’ve never been very good at the whole dating thing, but I want to do it right with you.”

 He tipped his head, looking up at Elliott’s face with a fond smile. “That’s really sweet. I don’t really have a lot of experience at dating either. I have a weird habit of pining, then sort of falling in love without thinking it through, then moving in with people.”

 Elliott laughed a little. “Sounds like we both have some catching up to do.”

 “Agreed. So no kisses until Saturday,” Kurt said, still smiling as he checked his phone for the status of the car service driver he’d called. “How do you feel about hugging?”

 “Friends hug,” he said, swinging an arm around Kurt’s shoulders in demonstration. “I could get into some serious post non-date hugging with you tonight. By Friday, we may be all the way up to snuggling.”

 He laughed and squeezed Elliott’s waist. “I could be okay with that.”

 Turning his head, Elliott looked down into Kurt’s eyes, noticing how pretty they looked in the light of the setting sun, shining blue with little flecks of green and gold.  Before he could be tempted to break his own promise to himself, he planted his lips on Kurt’s hairline, pressing the soft skin fondly.

 “Me too.”

 THE END

#StarKurt #Just a little holiday fluff #Usually baking would imply Kadam but this popped into my head and felt like a better fit with Kelliot :) #HummelHolidays

[easyfoodnetwork]

Until I Can Go Back to My Favorite Restaurant, This Jerk Paste Is the Next Best Thing

I don’t know how I lived so long without a jar of Walkerswood jerk seasoning | Elazar Sontag

Walkerswood Jamaican jerk seasoning has quickly become a kitchen staple

I smear the dark brown paste on everything. I pat it onto salmon filets before I slide them into the oven and sneak it between tightly stacked leaves of cabbage layered into a steamer basket. I use my hands to massage it into Brussels sprouts, roughly chopped carrots, and broccoli florets. And every time I pull the container from my fridge, I ask myself how the hell I lived so long without a jar of jerk seasoning.

I didn’t grow up eating much Jamaican food in Oakland, California. This city, awash with some of the best Ethiopian and Eritrean, Filipino, Mexican, and Laotian food in the country, has comparatively few spots offering flavors of the Caribbean. And neither of my vegetarian Jewish parents were making a whole lot of curry chicken or braised oxtails.

My introduction to jerk chicken — its skin soaked in the flavor of sweet smoke, of Scotch bonnet peppers, allspice berries, ginger, and green onion — was during my first year of college, across the Hudson river from a New York town called Kingston. That’s where I had my first meals at Top Taste, where you’ll find the best — and more or less only — jerk chicken, curry goat, and oxtails in town. The snug restaurant, painted with wide stripes of yellow and green in the colors of the Jamaican flag, and set on the corner of a sleepy residential street, sells all sorts of groceries you can’t find elsewhere in the area: ackee, saltfish, canned callaloo and Tastee Cheese in vacuum-sealed aluminum containers.

As soon as the door swung open on my first visit four years ago, I was greeted by booming dancehall coming from a boombox propped above the entrance and the smiling faces of owners Melenda Bartley and Albert Samuel Bartley, known to a stream of friends and loyal customers as Sammy. For many, Top Taste brought familiarity and reminders of faraway homes. To me, everything about the experience was new, a welcome and deeply needed change of pace and scenery from the always-boiled, never-baked food of my college dining hall. I didn’t own a car, but whenever I could convince one of my new friends to drive me there, I was at Top Taste.

This wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping.

Over the years, Melenda and Sammy became friends, and their restaurant felt more like home than the cement-block dorm where I slept. I’d order from the menu scrawled on a piece of neon green cardstock on the wall, and while Melenda was filling my square plastic plate with rice and peas, stew chicken, oxtails, and plantains, I’d walk around to the restaurant’s snug concrete patio, where a plume of smoke tipped off the whole neighborhood that Sammy was making a fresh tray of jerk chicken.

That chicken was like nothing I had eaten. The meat was almost blackened by the time it absorbed the smoke, and while the skin was crisp, it gave way between my teeth. The flesh was ever so slightly past the point of juiciness, the fat and connective tissue broken down over hours of gentle cooking, so that the meat melted with each bite, mixing with starchy sweet plantains, steamed cabbage and peppers, and a dot of ketchup and scorching hot sauce.

A few months into my often twice-weekly trips to Top Taste, I asked Sammy how he made his jerk chicken. He sat down next to me with his spice-smudged apron still on, and explained the process in very matter-of-fact terms: The meat gets marinated overnight in a rich jerk seasoning blend (very, very heavy on the ginger), and the next day — rain or shine — he lights a spark under the pimento wood in his old barrel grill, caked with a thick layer of seasoning from good use, and cooks the chicken until it’s done.

I’d known as soon as Sammy first walked me through his process that this wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping. He’d made the dish on so many occasions that each step was second nature: an inkling that more scallion, garlic, or Scotch bonnet was needed, a sniff test confirming the salt, heat, and herbage was balanced to his liking.

When I moved to the city after leaving college, I made it a point to seek out jerk chicken whenever and wherever I could, always comparing it to the meat that came off Sammy’s grill. Some restaurants in Brooklyn had plantains more plump than the ones at Top Taste. Others had the perfect rice and peas, each grain and bean whole and separate, never mushy. Many served a jerk chicken that was good — exceptional, even. But despite following every recommendation, no one’s chicken compared to Sammy’s.

I came back to Oakland to spend the first month of shelter-in-place with my family. But like so many others who up and left cities with no real plan, a month turned into three, and then four, and now here I am, writing from my childhood home six months later. When I lived in Brooklyn, I hadn’t once tried to make jerk chicken in my own kitchen, knowing when a craving really hit — which it reliably did — I could buy an Amtrak ticket for $38 and be perched comfortably at one of Top Taste’s plastic-upholstered booths by lunch. Now, I feel pangs of sadness thinking about Sammy and Melenda and the plate of jerk chicken and rice and peas I could be eating 3,000 miles away.

But on YouTube, where I spend so much of my life now, I recently came upon Terri-Ann, a Saint Lucian home cook who walks viewers through hundreds of incredibly appealing recipes. They include pandemic classics — banana bread and dalgona coffee, our old friends — but also some favorite dishes I didn’t get a chance to peek into the kitchen and watch Sammy or Melenda make on visits to Top Taste. Terri-Ann has recipes for oxtails robed in velvety gravy, flaky golden beef patties, and, to my great satisfaction, jerk chicken. In one video showing viewers how she makes her chicken, Terri-Ann pulls out a glass jar of Walkerswood Jamaican Jerk Seasoning, a pre-blended mixture of spices and herbs which she says she swears by. She plops a generous spoonful of the deep brown mixture into a bowl of chicken drumsticks, along with a big spoonful of her herby green seasoning blend and a drop or two of browning sauce for color. I hastily switched tabs and bought three jars of the seasoning blend with expedited shipping. It wouldn’t be the same, but maybe it’d do the trick.

Since then, the Walkerswood blend has become a staple in my kitchen. The spicy mixture of scallions, Scotch bonnet, allspice, nutmeg, and plenty of thyme finds its way into more or less everything I cook. It’s notably lacking in the generous heaps of grated fresh ginger I know Sammy adds to his blend, but still, it’s excellent. I live just blocks from Minto, one of few Jamaican markets in Oakland, and I regularly stop in to add new sauces and seasoning blends to my growing pantry. I have a jar of browning sauce now, and I’ve bought as many of the hot sauces I remember seeing on the tables at Top Taste as I can find. But nothing I’ve added to my pantry since coming home comes close to my jar of jerk seasoning. In addition to using it in recipes from Terri-Ann and other Caribbean and Caribbean-American YouTubers and food bloggers, I add the paste to fried rice, to tofu, to — you get it.

The boldly flavored mixture is a perfect match for chicken, but that’s where I use it least, instead opting to put it on a thick slab of salmon or slather it on vegetables before roasting. Perhaps there’s just too much dissonance when I pair it with chicken, the bar too high to meet.

I miss Sammy’s jerk chicken like I’ve never missed food before. It’s a yearning that’s become familiar during this pandemic, for those things I know I can’t have. There is no takeout order that will meet the craving, which is as much about the environment surrounding a plate of chicken as it is about the blend of spices or the kiss of smoke that permeates each bite. Those meals were colored by a sort of care and hospitality that you can’t pay for and that’s hard to even seek out. The extra steamed cabbage and carrots because Melenda knew I liked to run the mixture through a pool of curry goat gravy on my empty plate. A piece of bubblegum set on the table as I finished eating, just something to chew on during the drive back to campus. Later, Melenda would send me off with a warm slice of her homemade rum cake wrapped in aluminum foil. It sat in my coat pocket and warmed my hand as I boarded Amtrak to go back to Penn Station.

The first time I bit into a piece of baked chicken I’d marinated in the Walkerswood seasoning blend, I felt pulled in two directions: It was delicious — fragrant and hot, every spice and herb present but not overwhelming. I also felt a little disappointed, as if I’d really expected my thrown-together Wednesday night dinner to taste anything like what Sammy pulled off his smoker after hours and hours of slow cooking and constant attention. I know now, as I go on seven months without a single meal in a restaurant’s dining room or even on a reopened patio, that what’s missing isn’t a handful of grated ginger or the smoke from pimento chips (though both would improve my chicken game dramatically). What’s missing is something only a restaurant like Top Taste can provide, that can’t be found in a jar of seasoning. But right now a jar of seasoning is what I’ve got, and until I find myself in that tiny dining room again, this one is pretty damn good.

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I don’t know how I lived so long without a jar of Walkerswood jerk seasoning | Elazar Sontag

Walkerswood Jamaican jerk seasoning has quickly become a kitchen staple

I smear the dark brown paste on everything. I pat it onto salmon filets before I slide them into the oven and sneak it between tightly stacked leaves of cabbage layered into a steamer basket. I use my hands to massage it into Brussels sprouts, roughly chopped carrots, and broccoli florets. And every time I pull the container from my fridge, I ask myself how the hell I lived so long without a jar of jerk seasoning.

I didn’t grow up eating much Jamaican food in Oakland, California. This city, awash with some of the best Ethiopian and Eritrean, Filipino, Mexican, and Laotian food in the country, has comparatively few spots offering flavors of the Caribbean. And neither of my vegetarian Jewish parents were making a whole lot of curry chicken or braised oxtails.

My introduction to jerk chicken — its skin soaked in the flavor of sweet smoke, of Scotch bonnet peppers, allspice berries, ginger, and green onion — was during my first year of college, across the Hudson river from a New York town called Kingston. That’s where I had my first meals at Top Taste, where you’ll find the best — and more or less only — jerk chicken, curry goat, and oxtails in town. The snug restaurant, painted with wide stripes of yellow and green in the colors of the Jamaican flag, and set on the corner of a sleepy residential street, sells all sorts of groceries you can’t find elsewhere in the area: ackee, saltfish, canned callaloo and Tastee Cheese in vacuum-sealed aluminum containers.

As soon as the door swung open on my first visit four years ago, I was greeted by booming dancehall coming from a boombox propped above the entrance and the smiling faces of owners Melenda Bartley and Albert Samuel Bartley, known to a stream of friends and loyal customers as Sammy. For many, Top Taste brought familiarity and reminders of faraway homes. To me, everything about the experience was new, a welcome and deeply needed change of pace and scenery from the always-boiled, never-baked food of my college dining hall. I didn’t own a car, but whenever I could convince one of my new friends to drive me there, I was at Top Taste.

This wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping.

Over the years, Melenda and Sammy became friends, and their restaurant felt more like home than the cement-block dorm where I slept. I’d order from the menu scrawled on a piece of neon green cardstock on the wall, and while Melenda was filling my square plastic plate with rice and peas, stew chicken, oxtails, and plantains, I’d walk around to the restaurant’s snug concrete patio, where a plume of smoke tipped off the whole neighborhood that Sammy was making a fresh tray of jerk chicken.

That chicken was like nothing I had eaten. The meat was almost blackened by the time it absorbed the smoke, and while the skin was crisp, it gave way between my teeth. The flesh was ever so slightly past the point of juiciness, the fat and connective tissue broken down over hours of gentle cooking, so that the meat melted with each bite, mixing with starchy sweet plantains, steamed cabbage and peppers, and a dot of ketchup and scorching hot sauce.

A few months into my often twice-weekly trips to Top Taste, I asked Sammy how he made his jerk chicken. He sat down next to me with his spice-smudged apron still on, and explained the process in very matter-of-fact terms: The meat gets marinated overnight in a rich jerk seasoning blend (very, very heavy on the ginger), and the next day — rain or shine — he lights a spark under the pimento wood in his old barrel grill, caked with a thick layer of seasoning from good use, and cooks the chicken until it’s done.

I’d known as soon as Sammy first walked me through his process that this wasn’t the sort of recipe I could transcribe, fold up, and stash away for safekeeping. He’d made the dish on so many occasions that each step was second nature: an inkling that more scallion, garlic, or Scotch bonnet was needed, a sniff test confirming the salt, heat, and herbage was balanced to his liking.

When I moved to the city after leaving college, I made it a point to seek out jerk chicken whenever and wherever I could, always comparing it to the meat that came off Sammy’s grill. Some restaurants in Brooklyn had plantains more plump than the ones at Top Taste. Others had the perfect rice and peas, each grain and bean whole and separate, never mushy. Many served a jerk chicken that was good — exceptional, even. But despite following every recommendation, no one’s chicken compared to Sammy’s.

I came back to Oakland to spend the first month of shelter-in-place with my family. But like so many others who up and left cities with no real plan, a month turned into three, and then four, and now here I am, writing from my childhood home six months later. When I lived in Brooklyn, I hadn’t once tried to make jerk chicken in my own kitchen, knowing when a craving really hit — which it reliably did — I could buy an Amtrak ticket for $38 and be perched comfortably at one of Top Taste’s plastic-upholstered booths by lunch. Now, I feel pangs of sadness thinking about Sammy and Melenda and the plate of jerk chicken and rice and peas I could be eating 3,000 miles away.

But on YouTube, where I spend so much of my life now, I recently came upon Terri-Ann, a Saint Lucian home cook who walks viewers through hundreds of incredibly appealing recipes. They include pandemic classics — banana bread and dalgona coffee, our old friends — but also some favorite dishes I didn’t get a chance to peek into the kitchen and watch Sammy or Melenda make on visits to Top Taste. Terri-Ann has recipes for oxtails robed in velvety gravy, flaky golden beef patties, and, to my great satisfaction, jerk chicken. In one video showing viewers how she makes her chicken, Terri-Ann pulls out a glass jar of Walkerswood Jamaican Jerk Seasoning, a pre-blended mixture of spices and herbs which she says she swears by. She plops a generous spoonful of the deep brown mixture into a bowl of chicken drumsticks, along with a big spoonful of her herby green seasoning blend and a drop or two of browning sauce for color. I hastily switched tabs and bought three jars of the seasoning blend with expedited shipping. It wouldn’t be the same, but maybe it’d do the trick.

Since then, the Walkerswood blend has become a staple in my kitchen. The spicy mixture of scallions, Scotch bonnet, allspice, nutmeg, and plenty of thyme finds its way into more or less everything I cook. It’s notably lacking in the generous heaps of grated fresh ginger I know Sammy adds to his blend, but still, it’s excellent. I live just blocks from Minto, one of few Jamaican markets in Oakland, and I regularly stop in to add new sauces and seasoning blends to my growing pantry. I have a jar of browning sauce now, and I’ve bought as many of the hot sauces I remember seeing on the tables at Top Taste as I can find. But nothing I’ve added to my pantry since coming home comes close to my jar of jerk seasoning. In addition to using it in recipes from Terri-Ann and other Caribbean and Caribbean-American YouTubers and food bloggers, I add the paste to fried rice, to tofu, to — you get it.

The boldly flavored mixture is a perfect match for chicken, but that’s where I use it least, instead opting to put it on a thick slab of salmon or slather it on vegetables before roasting. Perhaps there’s just too much dissonance when I pair it with chicken, the bar too high to meet.

I miss Sammy’s jerk chicken like I’ve never missed food before. It’s a yearning that’s become familiar during this pandemic, for those things I know I can’t have. There is no takeout order that will meet the craving, which is as much about the environment surrounding a plate of chicken as it is about the blend of spices or the kiss of smoke that permeates each bite. Those meals were colored by a sort of care and hospitality that you can’t pay for and that’s hard to even seek out. The extra steamed cabbage and carrots because Melenda knew I liked to run the mixture through a pool of curry goat gravy on my empty plate. A piece of bubblegum set on the table as I finished eating, just something to chew on during the drive back to campus. Later, Melenda would send me off with a warm slice of her homemade rum cake wrapped in aluminum foil. It sat in my coat pocket and warmed my hand as I boarded Amtrak to go back to Penn Station.

The first time I bit into a piece of baked chicken I’d marinated in the Walkerswood seasoning blend, I felt pulled in two directions: It was delicious — fragrant and hot, every spice and herb present but not overwhelming. I also felt a little disappointed, as if I’d really expected my thrown-together Wednesday night dinner to taste anything like what Sammy pulled off his smoker after hours and hours of slow cooking and constant attention. I know now, as I go on seven months without a single meal in a restaurant’s dining room or even on a reopened patio, that what’s missing isn’t a handful of grated ginger or the smoke from pimento chips (though both would improve my chicken game dramatically). What’s missing is something only a restaurant like Top Taste can provide, that can’t be found in a jar of seasoning. But right now a jar of seasoning is what I’ve got, and until I find myself in that tiny dining room again, this one is pretty damn good.

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