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ficsnroses · 4 years

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Put Your Head On My Shoulder - John Wick x Reader

Some soft John fluff. Enjoy! :)

Word Count : 2652

Warnings : None!

Summary : Reader falls asleep on John’ chest, however, he’s too kind and gentle to wake her.

A/N : I will use this gif 100 times he’s so p r e t t y

As John scrambled around his living room, tidying up the spare couch cushions and scattered remotes, he finds himself growing more nervous than initially intended. Should he light a candle? Dim the lights? How much was too much? He hadn’t done this in years, he was definitely out of practice. His heart hadn’t planned on falling this solid, this fast for Y/N, but he did. And there was no undoing it, no going back from here.

Finding new love may just be one of the purest feelings on the planet. It’s hard to find another experience that makes you feel so hopeful, so cheerful, so happy with the course of life. You begin to find joy in all the little things around you, begin to see yourself in new ways. Falling in love, even the simplest drink of water tastes as if maple syrup, tapped from the finest maple tree, the smallest glance their way bringing the light of a million stars, twinkling in your eyes, nothing in the universe seeming more seamlessly, more flawlessly crafted, than them.

He didn’t believe in love at first sight, it was a concept too perfect. Too faultless, impeccable, a dire contrast to the life he had lived, the things he’d seen thus far. He didn’t think the sin he lived deserved to find happiness, the awful deeds that defined him would never truly erase. They’d always linger, glooming around him, following him to the depths of everything he did, everything he tried to be.

But when Y/N walked into his life, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to see her walk out. She’d gave him the normalcy he so desperately tried to seek, everywhere. Something about her was so inviting, so wholesome. He truly felt she was the first to see the good in him, the man who so desperately wanted to be free from who he had been. A man who wanted not to be remembered by the gruel things his life had succumbed to, whenever, wherever, he inevitably fades away.

Y/N and John were still quite new, still adjusting to the feeling of having each other around, feeling each other in the most unique of bonds. They were still getting used to each other, but one thing they knew, was that they’d keep each other around for a long, long time.

John tried his best to keep his thoughts, his feelings at bay, scared they’d overtake him too soon. But he had already pictured a future with Y/N, the perfect life he’d craved, the life he’d chased. He wanted it all, the white picket fence, the loyal dog, the boy born before the girl, so he could protect his sister from all harm that may threaten her way. The love he didn’t get before; the companionship he’d never received. He wanted it all, with her.

As he smoothed out the lines on the sofas, and made sure each thing was exactly in place, he ran a hand over his slightly sweat coated forehead. It wasn’t as if this was his first date with Y/N, it was far from that actually. They’d been seeing each other for around three months now, making an effort to talk to each other every single day, whether it was just a small text asking how their day was going, or a full blown conversation about things they hadn’t discovered about each other yet. He’d took her out to romantic evenings in the city, she loved the way the lights glimmered in evening air. He’d take her to the park, where they read books together under his favourite oak tree. He’d taken her on long, destination-less drives, where he’d hold her hand as she leaned her head out the window, taking in all the beautiful coastal sights, letting her know he’s close.

However, he’d never properly invited her over for a day in. He had been to her apartment a few times, popping in just to see her gorgeous face. But she had only ever seen his house once, the day she’d come to drop off some goodies she’d baked for him. She didn’t stay long that day, he was due for a job in the city next to town.

This was the first time she’d come to spend time with him in his setting. She’d get to see him in the place he was most vulnerable, the same place he’d spent countless nights lonesome. He had forgot how it felt to have someone else there with him, someone else’s voice to echo in the gray corridors of his not-so-humble abode.

The doorbell ringing sent butterflies quivering through his stomach. She was finally here.

He found himself taking a look at his appearance in the full body mirror by the entrance doorway. He’d never cared much about the way he’d looked before, sometimes letting the scruff of his beard grow wild in all directions. But now, he had someone to look good for. Someone to keep his beard trimmed spick and span for, someone to lather cologne onto his skin for. He straightens out his shirt and jeans, running a hand through his hair. He made sure to ruffle it a little bit, just the way she likes it.

With a finally content sigh, he glides open the bulky wooden door. There she stands, stunning as ever, her hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. The sun had been hitting her seamless skin in all the right places, she looked divine. John may have just felt his breath hitch momentarily at the sight of her. A big smile casts itself on his face, as he brings his arms up to wrap around her waist, pulling her in.

“Hi,” John beams, staring right at her lips. She’s brought her arms around his neck, getting on her tippy toes to reach his lips. They kiss briefly, both grinning into each other’s delicate, tender lips.

“Hi,” she says back. “You look really handsome today. Lucky me.” She grins, gently grazing her thumb over his cheek. John knew he must have blushed three shades deeper in a vibrant pink. There’s no one else that could manage to have this effect on him.

“You look beautiful, Y/N. As always.”

“I didn’t think we we’re going anywhere, so I didn’t dress up too much. I hope this is okay.” She glances down at her attire. She’s got on an oversized sweater and some jeans.

“It’s perfect. We’re not going anywhere, I thought we could watch a movie or something, make lunch at home?” John proposes, as she steps in and he closes the door behind her. Down the hallway, the sound of Dog’s collar rattling comes closer and closer, finding Y/N and John. Dog had met Y/N before a few times. When John took her out to the park on a date, or for a walk around the city, he’d bring Dog along.

“Hi baby, how are you today?” Y/N coos, leaning down to pet him. Y/N and Dog were quite fond of each other already, seeing them together, getting along made John’s heart so warm each time. She would buy Dog new toys often, much to John’s dismay. “He doesn’t need more toys than he already has, Y/N.” John would argue. “But he’s such a good boy!” she’d insist.

After brewing some fresh tea for the both of them, John and Y/N sit at the kitchen counter, talking. As they grip their respective mugs in hand, every now and then, their fingers touch each other’s skin, their hands fiddle together. They could talk to each other for hours, if time allowed them. John had never had such an easy time investing himself in someone else before, opening up to anyone else. But Y/N made him feel safe. He knew each thought; each word his lips spoke would be welcomed by her generous heart. She had such an aura to her, so alluring. He could never harm her, despite all the violence that laid on his fingertips, and he knew she’d never harm him.

“So what kinda movie you wanna watch?” John asks, leading her to the living room, where he may or may not have had a minor nervous breakdown before she arrived.

“Oh, anything works for me. Whatever you want.” She smiles, setting herself down on the couch, innocently folding her hands in her lap.

“Hmm, okay. Let’s see what’s on then?” John says, flipping through the channels. When they finally settle on a comedy, John places himself beside her on the couch, close enough so that their legs and shoulders are touching. John was a little out of practice to the whole…relationship thing. It had been so long since he had been in love, or even felt love for someone. He knew he wanted to hold her, but was that okay? That is what lovers do…right? Or did she just want space? John didn’t know what was the appropriate thing to do was. Should he just hold her hand, as they usually did?

As he pulls a knitted blanket from the side of the couch, he drapes it over the both of them. This was okay. He turns his head to see her smiling at him. He almost felt as if she was waiting for something. For him to do something. With a wave of confidence cast over him, he takes her smaller, softer hand in his, entwining both their fingers. She looks down at their connected hands, the way her hand has basically disappeared in his. She chuckles lightly, her lovely voice filling his ears. “You know, I don’t bite, John.”

John is almost awestruck, watching how comfortable she is around him, and in his home. He watches in admiration, as she lightly kisses his shoulder, before leaning her head on his bicep. She brings her arms to wrap around his arm that is holding her hand, tucking herself in. John loves every second of it, her holding onto him, proving to him that she trusts him, she feels safe around him. It may not have been a big deal to most people, but to John, having someone so close, knowing they’re not scared, was so special. It meant the world to him.

John wasn’t hesitant anymore. He slightly shifts his arm, moving it out of her grasp. She lifts her head, brows furrowing as she’s confused. She’s nervous now, did he not want to be held so close? Had she invaded his personal space, gone too far? She swallows lightly, scared she ruined the moment. But when John brings his arm to wrap around her, pulling her into his chest, she feels the smile creep onto her lips once again. John wanted to hold her closer. He kisses the top of her hair as she tucks her head onto his chest, her eyes reverting back to the screen. John brings his other spare hand to connect with her hand once again. They hear Dog pad into the room, waltzing in a few circles before setting himself at John’s feet, for a nap. This was perfect.

“This guys a complete idiot. Who even does anything remotely like that?” John huffs, staring intently at the screen. “I would feel stupid even writing this character on script.” John chuckles. However, when Y/N doesn’t reply, he questions why.

“Y/N? Darling?” John’s chest rumbles as he speaks, his coarse voice filling the room. When Y/N doesn’t reply, John leans his head forward, looking down at her.

She’s fallen asleep on his chest.

John felt butterflies in his stomach for the possibly 90th time that day. Here was the woman of his dreams, asleep, right on him. She felt secure enough, protected enough to doze off. John only holds her tighter, moving the hair that’s fallen in her eyes behind her ears, pressing his lips to her temple. She looked so precious. If he wasn’t sure of it before, he was definitely sure of it now. He was in love with her, and he didn’t think he’d be able to keep from telling her for much longer.

John tries not to stir; he didn’t want to wake her. He’d stay there all day, holding her, giving her a place to rest if he needed to.

Minutes go by, turning into an hour, an hour and a half…and so on. The movie has long finished, and John’s arm has fallen asleep a few times. He’s growing a little uncomfortable, but there’s no way he’s going to wake her. For her, he feels he could endure any pain. This was nothing. He keeps her in place, soothingly rubbing her back every now and then, embedding kisses in her head as his heart desires. Life seemed pretty darn good in this moment.

Eventually, two hours in, Y/N’s eyes snap open, as she gently flutters her eyelashes, getting used to the light surrounding. She’s in John living room still, but where’s John? She stirs, before realizing, he’s under her, as his right arm is wrapped around her, and his left hand is holding hers securely, still. She notices John must have pulled the blanket up to drape over her as she slept. He was so considerate.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Did I fall asleep on you?” she questions, voice quiet, as she sits up, looking at him.

“Yeah, actually. About 30 minutes in to the movie.” John smiles.

“How long was I out?” she scratches her head. Her hair is tousled, right on the side that had rested on John’s chest.

“Well, the movie finished about an hour ago.” John chuckles. Y/N’s eyes grow wide, and she gasps lightly.

“John, why didn’t you wake me up! We were supposed to spend time together.” She frowns. “I’m so sorry.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “John, you look like you haven’t moved an inch…did you stay like that the entire time?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He says, scratching the back of his head.

Y/N’s eyes grow gloomy, and she feels horrible. “Oh my gosh, baby, you must be so stiff. I’m sorry.” She says, touching his shoulder.

“I’m okay. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. I really liked it, though.” He smiles, staring into her eyes. As he moves his arm, however, he can’t help but wince at the sudden movement.

“John, please tell me you’re okay.” She grabs his arm, concerned.

“I’m all good, angel.”

Her expression suddenly moves from concerned, to a light, pink hue to blush over her cheeks. Her smile reaches all the way up to her eyes, and they sparkle. “John, did you really just sit still for two hours, just so that I could have a nap?”

John shrugs, unable to hide his dreamy smile. Y/N’s heart grows warm this time, in awe at the man in front of her. This amazing, remarkable, compassionate, gentle, dream of a man. She couldn’t believe how lucky she had fallen to find him, to have him walk into her life, and become such a big part of it so quick.

She brings one of her arms to entwine with his once again, leaning forward, to cup his bearded cheek with the other. She stares at his lips first, and then into his earthy, espresso eyes.

“You’re a good man, John.” She says sincerely, placing a loving, admiration and respect filled kiss onto his cheek. “A really, really good man.” She kisses the corner of his mouth this time.

John can’t help it, the moment is perfect, and she’s so close. They’re so connected in this moment, its picture-perfect.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” He breaths, close to her lips, barely above a whisper.

“I know I’ve fallen in love with you.” She assures, his cheek still resting in her hand, her thumb grazing the skin under his eye, as she connects their lips, in a searing, honey drenched kiss

*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*

#john wick x reader #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick x you

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cooperfmarchive · 4 years

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𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒆 again ! lenny back at it with another long ass intro , are we surprised ? below the cut , you can learn all about my emo boy cooper ! just like with val’s , give this post a LIKE and i’ll slide into ur dms to plot !

also , just an fyi : i'll probably be a little bit on and off for the next day or so , but i'm always available to reach via dms because i'm unhealthily attached to my phone !

( tw : mention of drugs , addiction )

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 here and do i have the tea for you . 𝑪𝑶𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹 is back on campus , which is surprising considering the threatening note i left them . yes , i know all about 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑻 - 𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑬𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑻𝒀 because of their 𝑮𝑳𝑼𝑻𝑻𝑶𝑵𝒀 . imagine the tabloids and how the 𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑨 family would feel for such information to come out , not to mention the reputation of 𝑺𝑰𝑮𝑴𝑨 because of their actions . at this rate , he is better off staying put in 𝑩𝑬𝑳 𝑨𝑰𝑹 , 𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑨 and living off that 1.2𝑩 family net worth . what’s the point in studying 𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑰𝑪 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑫𝑼𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵 with plans to 𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑳 & 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑴 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑫𝑾𝑰𝑫𝑬 , is it worth it with what i know ? anyways , they may want to continue to be 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑮 & 𝑫𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑺 because the 𝑨𝑫𝑫𝑰𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑽𝑬 & 𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻 attributes make me want to spill . ( austin butler , lenny , mst ) .

* / ——— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑨𝑺𝑰𝑪𝑺 :

full name : cooper johnathon averna

nicknames : coop , cj

age / birthdate : twenty3 / june 15th , 1996

gender : cis male / he , him

sexuality : pansexual

hometown : bel air , california

major : music production

* / ——— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 :

ok so funny story !!! i started writing this out , and then i kept writing ... and writing ... and writing ... and then my “ intro ” turned into a whole ass “ biography ” for my boy cooper so !! you can find that Novel right here ( the end is still a work in progress tho ) . below will be my attempt at the spark notes version of it all , although i can almost guarantee it will still get out of hand because i , like our lord and saviour jenna marbles , cannot control my too much gene !!!!

so our boy cooper is the older brother to our fav twins , summer and wynter averna ! together , the three of them are the youngest generation of the averna family . powerful , renowned , and manipulative — the avernas are made up of a long line of successful politicians . currently , daddy johnathan averna is the governor of california , and this heavy legacy has weighed upon cooper’s shoulders for the majority of his life .

in short , cooper is best described as the black sheep of the averna family . while his other family members are power - hungry , manipulative , and thick - skinned , cooper could be described as weak - willed , personable , and charming . this was a major disappointment to his father , john , because he’d been hoping for a son that would follow in his footsteps and grow up to make incredible moves in politics , but cooper couldn’t have been further from what a politician should be , and this caused for a severe lack of affection and validation from his parents on cooper’s part .

at school , however , cooper filled these holes with the popularity he gained within the halls of his private school . everyone wanted to be his friend and the affection and compassion that he lacked at home was made up for by his large circle of friends . but unfortunately , things were not as picture - perfect as they seemed , and in his sophomore year of high school , cooper discovered that his girlfriend had been hooking up with his best friend and in an extreme domino effect , cooper learned that the “ friends ” he’d surrounded himself with were just as power - hungry and manipulative as his own family and were using him for the sole purpose of gaining popularity and getting a taste of the prestige cooper’s surname promised .

but cooper here is far too soft and desperate for affection , and his fear of loneliness far outweighed his desire to have meaningful relationships so he couldn’t bare to actually cut those who’d been using him out of his life . so instead , cooper found himself diving deep into bel air’s party scene , the adrenaline and excitement of it distracting him from the fact that everyone around him didn’t really give two shits about him .

cooper’s partying kind of snowballed from there . long story short , his parents literally never noticed that cooper had even an inkling of a problem , which further distanced him from his family . and as soon as cooper was eighteen , he booked a one - way ticket to europe to do what he does best : run away from his issues and drown them out with alcohol and drugs .

he really just wanted to escape the weight of his surname and putting as much distance between himself and the spotlight that followed him constantly seemed like his best bet . and for about a year , it really worked for him . he bounced around europe , discovered its beauty and culture , and partied day in and day out , all while forgetting the legacy he’d left behind and finding what he wanted to : music — but we’ll get to that later .

but just short of a year , cooper got caught up in a drunken brawl in amsterdam that left him with a concussion and broken hand . luckily , daddy came to the rescue after a phone call from cooper and john paid off everyone involved in order to keep the story under wraps , but under one condition : cooper return home to bel air and attend university to hopefully clean up his act and get a degree .

cooper started at hollingsworth as a business major , but that didn’t work out as easily as he’d been hoping and he was just barely scraping by at the end of his sophomore year . however , when he was home for the summer , cooper rediscovered his love for music upon finding the belongings of his that had been shoved away by his parents two years prior , and he made the switch to majoring in music production when he returned to hollingsworth for his junior year .

his parents still do not know about his change in major , for cooper knows they wouldn’t believe it’s a viable career path for him to take and he also has an innate fear of disappointing them . he’s got some severe daddy issues , having always desperately craved the validation of his father but always lacking it because his dad only believed in only one possible future for his son : carrying on the averna legacy in politics . cooper realizes that it’s ridiculous , and that he is more than free to do what he wants and brush off his parents’ judgements , but that is a lot easier said than done unfortunately .

to briefly touch on his music : cooper’s voiceclaim is sir sly — edgy , emo , electronic alternative music . he’s incredibly passionate about his music , often spending many late nights in hollingsworth’s recording studios . he taught himself to play guitar while in europe , but upon enrolling in hworth’s music program has learned how to play the drums , keyboard , and properly project his vocals . he’s also gained experience in mixing and producing music , of which he mostly does himself with his own music . currently , he has one released album ( you haunt me ) , but is working on his next one ( don’t you worry , honey ) already .

* / ——— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 :

label(s) : the muso , the maverick , the enigma , the black sheep

muso ( a person who is musically talented )

maverick ( an unorthodox or independent - minded person )

enigma ( a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand )

black sheep ( regarded as a disgrace to a family )

notable traits : charming , reckless , dexterous , addictive , reticent , truculent , intelligent , compassionate , adventurous

aesthetics : a sharpened pencil scratching against paper , ringed fingers plucking guitar strings , a piercing gaze , pursed lips , cigarette smoke curling in evening air , soft t - shirts and black jeans , shiny silver and gold jewelry , masculine cologne

in a nutshell : basically , cooper’s an enigma at first glance . he has a mysterious aura to him : his gaze is shielded , his voice quiet , and his posture reclusive . he often prefers to keep to himself in unfamiliar situations at first until he gets a feel for the atmosphere , and the way he’s usually hunkered over a journal definitely screams “ leave me alone . ” the walls he built around himself in high school remain strong , because he knows he’s far too soft - hearted for his own good . overly eager to protect everyone he meets and show others the love and compassion he desperately craves for himself , he’s a walking contradiction in the way that he puts distance between himself and others , fearful of letting them too close , lest it be revealed that they’re only using him for his elite legacy and his heart be broken once again , but his need for attention and companionship has made him incredibly skilled at making you feel like there’s little to no distance separating him from you , distracting you from realizing that you actually know very little about him with his infectious smile and exciting presence . everyone’s a friend of cooper’s , at least on the outside . but if you’re lucky enough to actually wiggle through a crack in his walls , you’ll find a heart far larger than expected , a passion for music that he’s eager to share with others , and a protectiveness for his loved ones that is reminiscent of the brother you always wanted .

* / ——— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑻 :

it’s no secret that cooper loves to party — he’s all over hworth’s party scene , often one of the first to call for a round of shots on a night out — but what is a secret is cooper’s addiction to drugs , specifically but not limited to cocaine .

upon his return to bel air , one of the promises he’d made to his family was that he’d stop using and beat the addiction that had haunted him . the news of cooper’s addiction was the last thing his father wanted to get leaked to the public , fearful for his own reputation as a clean , respected public figure if his own son had fallen prey to drugs . and for a while , cooper was able to bury his addiction and avoid his kryptonite while at parties — but as school became more stressful he found it increasingly difficult to continue to do so , and one night someone offered a line to cooper after a particularly stressful exam and he gave in , and the flood gates opened .

when he was younger and first entering the party scene , cooper had almost openly flaunted his drug use , probably as a cry for help to his seemingly clueless parents , but since relapsing he’s learned how to keep it behind closed doors . only a fair few know of his drug use and cooper will go to any length to keep it that way .

* / ——— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑬𝑶𝑼𝑺 :

wanted plots .

pinterest .

spotify .

also !!! i feel like i need to address the topic of cooper’s hair , because many of the resources that i will be using of austin have him with blond with long and shaggy hair , but cooper’s hair is actually what austin’s is right now : dark and cut short . but to kinda explain the photos of blond!austin , cooper actually bleached his hair and grew it out whilst travelling in europe as another act of defiance towards his family and to distance himself from his past self . over the past summer , though , he cut it short and dyed it back to his natural brunet , purely an impulse decision TBH , but also probably a weird metaphor for how he initially went blond to distance himself from his legacy , but now that he’s pursuing a career that really distances him from it , he went back to brunet as his own fucked up way of still trying to appease his parents’ fucked up expectations .

#* ╱ 𝐟𝐢��𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 : ooc #holling:intro #im literally abOUT to leave #but i'll be on mobile until i get home in a couple hours !

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spamzineglasgow · 5 years

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Recipes (Andrew Spragg)

In this essay, Andrew Spragg explores the recipes that make our memory, the traces of tenderness within forms of culinary hauntology. Moving from page to table, from bread sauce to pigs’ heads and parmesan to presence, Spragg puts on a warm simmer the imperative question: what do we mean when we speak of a signature dish?

My royal lord, You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold That is not often vouched, while ’tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.

Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 4

Anything that is decent, anything that is present, a calm and a cook and more singularly still a shelter, all these show the need of clamour. What is the custom, the custom is in the centre.

Gertrude Stein ‘Food’ Tender Buttons

> Food is a great reservoir of memory: Proust’s madeleines as the setting off point for lifestyle features on homely food the world over, to the point that the beauty and clarity of the original text has become soggy, much like a small cake stored in the gullet for too long.

> We must all learn to swallow sooner of later. When we do, it is the most intimate of sensations, taboo in some contexts, unpleasant in others. It can also be a great pleasure, the silence it brings about one of deep appreciation. It can be a homely sensation, or heimlich as in Freud’s unheimlich. Heimlich is what is concealed - what we might consider swallowed - our tenderest way of sharing, to imbibe, to take it or be taken in.

> If nothing else, we can enjoy the happy coincide of Dr Heimlich, whose procedure (maneuver) is one that brings what is concealed out into the open, if done properly. Perhaps Dr Freud and Dr Heimlich share more than just a tongue.

> The first time I cooked a pig’s head, it was for a friend. We have shared many meals, in and out of the home, always happy for the company, if not the food. My main memories of eating together are from our adolescence. A petrol station pasty, bought to sober up after too many drinks in the pub over the road, a craving sated by refrigerated stodge and us laughing with bemused self-disgust. One Christmas we made a bread and butter pudding, improvised with guessed at proportions. This was prior to any recipe you can imagine being a few keystrokes away, and we assumed it was an unfuckupable dish. It was terrible, though our friends were gracious enough to swallow it.

> Now I am older, I eat better. I still crave salt and fat when I’ve had too much to drink. It tends to be pieces of parmesan sliced from the block, something I discovered during a meal with another friend, this time at Ciao Bella on Lamb’s Conduit Street. This place is associated with so many happy meals, with friends, partners, and one thing I have enjoyed the most is the large olives and chunks of parmesan they bring to the table as an opening snack.

> The pig’s head, or the recipe for it, came from another place of happy memories, St John’s in Smithfield. I first heard of the restaurant when a newspaper ran a series of articles marking its twentieth anniversary. Something about the picture of the affable, kind looking Fergus Henderson piqued my interest. My parents took me for my thirtieth birthday and I’ve been back many times since. The bone marrow and parsley salad, Henderson’s signature dish, is something I think about a lot, the trace of it, the contentment and comfort it has become associated with. I have found myself there on occasion when I’ve needed to think, or just soak up those melancholy feelings that slosh about.

> My parents gave me the Nose to Tail cookbook. The half pig’s head recipe is in there, alongside a picture of Fergus Henderson standing outside a restaurant called Rubis in Paris. Again, he looks affable and kind. The restaurant is one I visited with my partner when we were in Paris last year. We had an amazing, and simple, meal, in the small bistro restaurant. The waiters all looked like my friend Joe, or some variation of Joe, like a Joe tribute act. I ordered a bottle of wine, instead of a glass, by accident. I drank half and then gave the rest to the two men sat next to us when we left. Despite the lack of a proficient common tongue, we shared a friendly moment of companionship, four people enjoying good meals in good company. I went back with my parents a few months later, and ate there again. It was crowded and bustling. I have a picture of the two of them, a little overwhelmed by the lack of space, indifferent patrons and waiters, a menu that refused to share its secrets until the food arrived on the table. They both ended up with dishes of boiled meat, and I had a steak. I felt sorry that their memories of that place would be different from mine.

> Since I moved to Wood Street this year, I discovered a butcher that sold pig’s heads pre-packed and cheap. Matt, the friend with whom I had attempted the bread and butter pudding, volunteered himself as diner. The recipe was simple: vegetables, stock, wine and a slow cooking time. It filled the flat with comfortable piggy smells, like a hog roast at a craft fair. I’d been to plenty with my parents. Small memories atop one another, and a little peaceful ahhh moment, the anticipation of something being cooked and time being shared.

Some statements:

A recipe is repeatable. A recipe will create something consistent if followed closely. A recipe is unique. A recipe is shared. A recipe marks the passage of something that is not present that becomes present.

> Let us consider recipes and memory - there’s a trace in the taste of things, though it can be deceptive as well. It is not enough to say a particular taste is associated with a particular foodstuff, it is also the way it influences our memory.

> There was a moment this Christmas when we talked about making Grandma’s bread sauce. I had volunteered to make it, and was surprised to discover that the recipe (rather than typically recorded in handwritten blue ballpoint, the letters having fringed and bled into the discoloured paper from having been damp and later dried at some unspecified hour) was actually in a Delia Smith cookbook. It was no more Grandma’s than anyone else who possessed the cookbook. However, it was enough of Grandma’s bread sauce that three different people referred to it by that name.

> No one referred to it as Delia’s recipe, despite the fact that in copyright law, and to the majority of people, that is what it is. It doesn’t matter though. When we taste the bread sauce, it is the absence of Grandma we feel keenly, not the absence of Delia. However, in order to taste something consistent with our memory of Grandma’s bread sauce, we are turning to Delia. That is the joy of a recipe. A good one will not remind you of its origins, but of where it became present for you. I don’t remember the pig’s head because it came from a St John’s book, I remember it for the adventure of assembling the ingredients, preparing them and cooking it. I remember the smell, yet another absence that becomes, or is becoming of, presence.

> Derrida in his essay ‘Signature Event Context’ is preoccupied by written communication and its absences:

It is first of all the absence of the addressee. One writes in order to communicate something to those who are absent. The absence of the sender, of the receiver [destinateur], from the mark that he abandons, and which cuts itself off from him and continues to produce effects independently of his presence and of the present actuality of his intentions [vouloir-dire], indeed even after his death, his absence, which moreover belongs to the structure of all writing-and I shall add further on, of all language in general…

> Think about recipes. Long after the chef has finished with them, finishing writing them, finished cooking them, we can still taste the results. The recipe that is older than us is easy to conceive, and through its sharing we are linked back to something, some collective sensation, something as simple as taste. Can there be an effect more immediately present and yet independent of the presence of the sender? And look what Derrida has to say elsewhere:

My communication must be repeatable-iterable-in the absolute absence of the receiver or of any empirically determinable collectivity of receivers. Such iterability [...] structures the mark of writing itself, no matter what particular type of writing is involved (whether pictographical, hieroglyphic, ideographic, phonetiC, alphabetiC, to cite the old categories). A writing that is not structurally readable-iterable-beyond the death of the addressee would not be writing.

> For a recipe to be a recipe it must be repeatable. All of which raises another question: is a recipe a genre of writing, or a type of writing? Recipes are instructional writing, orientated towards producing something, but also a good recipe book commonly tells us something of its author. Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking is as much about Child’s experience as an American migrant in France, her desire to master and share the food she loves, as it is about making a few dishes. The thing must be repeatable, but it is also a work of autobiography, a unique event reinscribed through instruction.

> Going further and thinking about Derrida’s words regarding the signature:

By definition, a written signature implies the actual or empirical nonpresence of the signer. But, it will be claimed, the signature also marks and retains his having-been present in a past now or present [maintenant] which will remain a future now or present [maintenant], thus in a general maintenant, in the transcendental form of presentness [maintenance]. That general maintenance is in some way inscribed, pinpointed in the always evident and singular present punctuality of the form of the signature. Such is the enigmatic originality of every paraph. In order for the tethering to the source to occur, what must be retained is the absolute singularity of a signature-event and a signature-form: the pure reproducibility of a pure event.

> What do we mean when we refer to someone’s signature dish? The very thing Derrida has described - the absolute singularity of a signature-event and a signature-form.

> Belshazzar’s feast in the Book of Daniel can be reframed through Derrida’s analysis, and some of the ideas we have touched upon: the great meal is interrupted by a finger that writes an unintelligible message on the wall:

Belshazzar, whiles he tasted the wine, commanded to bring the golden and silver vessels which his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken out of the temple which was in Jerusalem; that the king, and his princes, his wives, and his concubines, might drink therein. Then they brought the golden vessels that were taken out of the temple of the house of God which was at Jerusalem; and the king, and his princes, his wives, and his concubines, drank in them. They drank wine, and praised the gods of gold, and of silver, of brass, of iron, of wood, and of stone. In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king's palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote.

> It the fingers of a man’s hand, not a man, or even his hand, but these fingers that come forth. It is the presence, the ‘part of the hand that wrote', that the king sees, and it is the act of writing that takes the centre ground. In the same way we can think of our recipes, that is the act of making that we see, that slippery transformation of ingredients that are neither presence nor non-presence, the bread sauce that extends into memories. We see the hands of the absent, the part of the hand that wrote, in our recipe work. What should we make of the fact that the vessels were originally taken by Belshazzar’s father, who is troubled by his own unreadable and prophetic dream earlier in the Book of Daniel? Is this the echo of that earlier time, the memory recalled as we have suggested that recipes, the ceremonies of eating, are capable of?

> Note that the removal of the items from the temple is not provocation for the divine writing, but the act of drinking the wine from them, the praising of material gods. The unintelligible message, the one Daniel interprets as one of judgement, is something we can see at another banquet, another instance of taste and ceremony that prompts a spectral presence, a signature of sorts. In Macbeth, the ghost manifests at the feast each time Macbeth raises his glass for a toast, the taste or at least its anticipation associated with the spectre. Both these scenes share common ground: a moment of judgement, a message that comes as mysterious and unintelligible, and both are the source for common idioms ('the ghost at the feast', 'the writing on the wall', ‘to be weighed and found wanting’). An idiom, a recipe, something passed through into common usage through repetition, something that was unique at the time of conception. There is an ambiguity as well, for these are not happy occasions, though there is something powerful in the way the act of consumption prompts the arrival of someone the two protagonists would rather forget.

> We do not expect Fergus to arrive at our door on every occasion we prepare his pig’s head recipe, nor do we expect Grandma to materialise corporeally when we make up the bread sauce. There is, however, something of the memory, the trace as Derrida might have it, in bringing the recipe from the page to the table.

> We return to the same restaurants and hope to share something of an experience we have had before, the pleasure of being in company, the affection of common things like food. We scribe and reinscribe our signatures. We eat and drink as an act of remembrance, or as a celebration. We manifest what we have shared, those times we have come together, and there is something of a presence manifested in each taste. In this way we remember ourselves and others through food, we commit our signature, and mark our time. Our food makes ghosts.

Works Cited

Child, Julia et al, Mastering the Art of French Cooking Volume One, Penguin Books, 2010

Derrida, Jacques, ‘Signature Event Context’, Limited Inc, Northwestern University Press, 1988.

The Holy Bible, King James Version, Bible Gateway, www.biblegateway.com. Accessed 22 January 2019

Henderson, Fergus et al, The Complete Nose to Tail, Bloomsbury, 1999

Shakespeare, William, Macbeth, http://shakespeare.mit.edu/macbeth/full.htmlAccessed 22 January 2019

Stein, Getrude, Tender Buttons, City Lights Books, 2014

Text & Image: Andrew Spragg

#Andrew Spragg #essay #culinary hauntology #Derrida #The Holy Bible #Shakesepare #Macbeth #Gertrude Stein #French cooking #pigs heads #meat #food #ghosts #family #memory

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