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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.

Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevirr @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1

Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁

It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!

“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.

Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.

You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.

“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.

“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”

“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”

Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.

“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”

“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.

“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”

“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”

Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.

“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”

And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”

“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.

“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”

“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.

“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”

“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.

“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.

“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.

“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”

“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”

“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”

“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.

“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”

Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”

“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”

“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.

“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”

“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”

You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”

“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”

“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”

Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”

“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”

“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”

I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”

“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.

“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”

Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.

You pivot. “How many children do you have?”

Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”

“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”

“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”

The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.

“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”

Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”

Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”

“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”

Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.

You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”

“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”

“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”

He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”

“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.

“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”

Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”

“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”

“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.

“And how much do your cakes cost?”

“$10 each,” Amir tells her.

“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”

“Of course, no problem.”

Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”

“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.

“In that closet over there.”

Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.

As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.

“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”

Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”

Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”

“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

“Thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.

Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.

“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”

“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”

“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”

What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”

It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”

Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.

“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”

“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”

“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”

“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”

“Bye.”

“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.

“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”

You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”

“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.

“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”

“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.

“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”

“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”

“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”

Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”

“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”

“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.

You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.

“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”

Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:

“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,

Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,

Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?

Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”

Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.

“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”

“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”

“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”

“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.

“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.

Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”

“You can keep it.”

“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”

“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”

“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.

“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”

She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”

“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.

“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”

He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”

Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”

“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”

“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”

You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”

“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”

Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”

Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”

You ask: “Who did you interview?”

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”

“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”

“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”

“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”

“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”

Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”

“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”

“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”

“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”

Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”

But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”

“Is he really?”

Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”

“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.

“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”

“People get paid for that? To study history?”

“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”

“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”

“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”

“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”

Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”

“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”

He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”

“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”

He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”

“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”

You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”

“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”

“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”

“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.

“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”

“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?

“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”

Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”

“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”

Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”

“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”

“No, I don’t like coffee.”

“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”

“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”

“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”

“What, and walked 25 miles home?”

“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.

“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”

But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.

“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.

You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”

“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”

That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.

It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.

“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”

You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”

“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”

“I told you that?”

“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”

“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So something happened.”

“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”

“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.

“I don’t really ever talk about it.”

“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”

You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”

Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.

“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I’d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”

“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”

“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”

But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”

You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”

“And he wouldn’t drive you.”

Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”

Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”

“Aemond—”

“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”

You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”

“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”

“But you should have had a choice.”

You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”

Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”

“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.

“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.

“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.

“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”

“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.

“Seven?” you say.

“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.

“Radical! Amazing!”

Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”

“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”

“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”

Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”

“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.

Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”

“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”

“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”

“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”

“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”

“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”

“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!”

Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”

“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”

“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”

And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”

“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”

“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”

“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”

“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.

“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”

“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.

You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.

At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”

“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”

He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.

You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”

“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”

“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”

“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”

It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”

“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”

He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.

“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”

“No girlfriend either?”

“No.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”

“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”

“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”

And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

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greekcookingmadeeasy · 26 days

Text

Greek Fava I.E. Yellow Split Peas With Boiled Beets

♦️

Greek Fava i.e. Yellow Split Peas with boiled beets - Fava me vrasta Pantzaria

BY: Greek Cooking Made Easy

SUBSCRIBE TO MY YOUTUBE CHANNEL: https://www.youtube.com/greekcookingmadeeasy

Check My YouTube Video: HERE

Κοιτάξτε Επίσης Την Συνταγή Μου Σε YouTube Βίντεο, Το Λίνκ Είναι: ΕΔΩ

youtube

SERVES 🍴⃒ PREP. TIME 🕔⃒

6 persons 10 min. + 30 min. wait

COOK. TIME ♨ DIFFIC. LEVEL 👩‍🍳⃒

30 min. Very Easy

Fava is one of those amazing lentils that's boiled very quickly and has a smooth, mushy texture.

If you have tried and liked my original recipe for Fava, then you will love this one. I simply add boiled beets, that heighten Fava's already delicately sweet taste and give it a beautiful and exceptional ruby color.

A great appetizer, easy, healthy, nutritious, delicious. A recipe tried in the island of Rhodes. What else could you ask for?

Suitable for vegans and fasting.

Check also my recipe for Greek Garlic Sauce Aka Skordalia With Bread And Beets HERE

INGREDIENTS:

• 250 gr. / 9 oz Fava beans (Yellow Split peas)

• 4 cups / 1 lt. Water (to boil fava)

• 1 small Onion, coarsely chopped

• 3-4 tbsp. / 45-60 ml Extra Virgin Olive Oil

• 120 gr. / 4.2 oz Beets, boiled (1 large or 2 medium)

• 1/3 cup / 40 gr. / 1.4 oz Walnuts, very finely chopped

• Ground Salt and Pepper

• To garnish: 1/4 bunch Parsley, finely chopped and extra Ground Pepper

• 1 Lime in wedges

METHOD:

A. Boil the Fava:

1. Let Fava beans soak in a bowl with plenty of water for 30', before boiling.

2. After 30' drain them.

3. Pour 1 lt. clean water in a pot over medium heat. Place the soaked fava in the pot.

4. Drizzle a bit Olive Oil on top to prevent Fava from sticking to the bottom. Blend it in.

5. When the water starts boiling, turn down the heat and let Fava simmer for about 25'-30'. Time of boiling depends on how fresh Fava is.

6. Add the small onion in the boiled fava, together with some freshly ground salt.

7. In the meantime, cut boiled beets in slices. Reserve.

8. After about 30', check if fava is ready. Beans should be very soft, they should have thickened & 3/4 of the water should have evaporated.

9. If not ready, add some more hot water and continue boiling for 5' extra.

10. Then turn off the heat!

11. Important: Don’t drain the rest of the water in the fava!!

B. Finish the Fava dish:

12. While still hot, use a hand blender or food processor and make Fava a smooth thick paste, with a puree like consistency.

13. Add the slices of boiled beet, reserving a couple to garnish Fava.

14. Next add the finely chopped walnuts, season with ground Salt and Pepper, to taste and pour the rest of Olive oil in the fava.

15. Continue beating with the hand blender until all ingredients are homogenized.

16. Stir with a soup spoon to check for any lumps and to make it even smoother.

17. Tip: Fava might look like a runny mush but it will harden and turn more solid when it cools and sets.

C. Serving instructions/suggestions:

18. Serve immediately, by pouring warm Fava in a wide Salad bowl or a deep platter and level it.

19. Fava with beets can be served warm or at room temp. as an appetizer or main course.

20. Garnish it by sprinkling on top the chopped parsley, some more ground pepper and the reserved slices of boiled beet.

21. Additionally, you could add lime wedges on the side and some baked octopus (in a packet) on top of the fava puree.

An easy, appetizing dish for the Summer or during Lent. A surprising ruby Ouzo treat to be enjoyed with some homemade cheese breadsticks (kritsinia)!

D. Storage Info:

Fava can be stored, after it cools down, in an airtight container in the fridge, for up to one week.

Check my YouTube Video: HERE

Φάβα με βραστά Παντζάρια

BY: Greek Cooking Made Easy

SUBSCRIBE TO MY YOUTUBE CHANNEL: https://www.youtube.com/greekcookingmadeeasy

ΜΕΡΙΔΕΣ🍴⃒ ΠΡΟΕΤΟΙΜΑΣΙΑ 🕔⃒

6 10 min. + 30 min. αναμονή

ΜΑΓΕΙΡΕΜΑ ♨ ΒΑΘΜ. ΔΥΣΚΟΛΙΑΣ 👩‍🍳⃒

30 min. Πολύ Εύκολη

Η φάβα είναι από εκείνα τα καταπληκτικά όσπρια που βράζουν πολύ γρήγορα και έχουν λεία, χυλώδη υφή.

Αν έχετε δοκιμάσει και σας άρεσε η βασική συνταγή μου για φάβα, τότε θα λατρέψετε αυτή. Προσθέτω απλά βραστά παντζάρια, που ενισχύουν την ήδη ελαφρά γλυκιά γεύση της Φάβας και της δίνουν ένα πανέμορφο ρουμπινί χρώμα.

Ένα υπέροχο ορεκτικό, εύκολο, υγιεινό, θρεπτικό, πεντανόστιμο. Μια συνταγή δοκιμασμένη στο νησί της Ρόδου. Τι άλλο θα μπορούσατε να ζητήσετε;

Κατάλληλο για Βίγκαν και νηστεία.

Δείτε ακόμα και τη Συνταγή μου για Σκορδαλιά Με Ψωμί Και Παντζάρια ΕΔΩ

ΥΛΙΚΑ:

• 250 γρ. / 9 oz Φάβα

• 4 φλ. / 1 lt. Νερό (για να βράσει η φάβα)

• 1 μικρό, ξερό Κρεμμύδι, χοντροκομμένο

• 3-4 κ.σ. / 45-60 ml Εξαιρετικό Παρθένο Ελαιόλαδο

• 120 γρ. / 4,2 oz Παντζάρια, βραστά (1 μεγάλο ή 2 μέτρια)

• 1/3 φλ. / 40 γρ. / 1,4 oz Καρύδια, πολύ καλά ψιλοκομμένα

• Φρεσκοαλεσμένο αλάτι και πιπέρι

• Για το γαρνίρισμα: 1/4 ματσάκι Μαϊντανός, ψιλοκομμένος και επιπλέον τριμμένο πιπέρι

• 1 Λάιμ στα τέσσερα

ΜΕΘΟΔΟΣ:

Α. Βράστε τη φάβα:

1. Αφήστε τη φάβα να μουλιάσει σε ένα μπολ με άφθονο νερό για 30', πριν τη βράσετε.

2. Μετά από 30' στραγγίστε τη.

3. Ρίξτε 1 λτ. καθαρό νερό σε μια κατσαρόλα πάνω από μέτρια φωτιά. Τοποθετήστε τη μουλιασμένη φάβα μέσα στην κατσαρόλα.

4. Ρίξτε λίγο ελαιόλαδο από πάνω για να μην κολλήσει η φάβα στον πάτο. Ανακατέψτε.

5. Μόλις αρχίσει να βράζει το νερό, χαμηλώστε τη φωτιά και αφήστε τη φάβα να σιγοβράσει για 25'-30' περίπου. Ο χρόνος βρασμού εξαρτάται από το πόσο φρέσκια είναι η φάβα.

6. Προσθέστε το κρεμμύδι στη βρασμένη φάβα, μαζί με λίγο φρεσκοτριμμένο αλάτι.

7. Στο μεταξύ κόψτε σε ροδέλες τα βραστά παντζάρια. Βάλτε στην άκρη.

8. Μετά από περίπου 30' τσεκάρετε αν είναι έτοιμη η φάβα. Πρέπει να είναι πολύ μαλακιά, να έχει πήξει και τα 3/4 του νερού να έχουν εξατμιστεί.

9. Αν δεν είναι έτοιμη προσθέστε λίγο επιπλέον ζεστό νερό και συνεχίστε το βράσιμο για 5' ακόμα.

10. Στη συνέχεια σβήστε τη φωτιά!

11. Σημαντικό: Μην στραγγίσετε το υπόλοιπο νερό από τη φάβα!!

Β. Τελειώστε τη φάβα:

12. Όσο είναι ακόμα ζεστή, χρησιμοποιήστε ένα ραβδομπλέντ��ρ ή επεξεργαστή τροφίμων και χτυπήστε τη φάβα να γίνει μια λεία παχύρρευστη μάζα, με υφή πουρέ.

13. Προσθέστε τις φέτες παντζαριού, κρατώντας δύο για να γαρνίρετε τη φάβα.

14. Στη συνέχεια προσθέστε τα ψιλοκομμένα καρύδια, αλατοπιπερώστε και ρίξτε και το υπόλοιπο ελαιόλαδο στη φάβα.

15. Συνεχίστε το χτύπημα με το ραβδομπλέντερ μέχρι να ομογενοποιηθούν όλα τα υλικά.

16. Ανακατέψτε με ένα κουτάλι σούπας για να ελέγξετε αν υπάρχουν τυχόν σβώλους και για να γίνει ακόμα πιο λεία.

17. Συμβουλή: Η φάβα μπορεί να μοιάζει κάπως ρευστός χυλός, αλλά θα γίνει πιο συμπαγής μόλις κρυώσει και δέσει.

Γ. Οδηγίες/προτάσεις σερβιρίσματος:

18. Σερβίρετε αμέσως, ρίχνοντας τη ζεστή φάβα σε μια φαρδιά σαλατιέρα ή βαθιά πιατέλα και ισιώστε τη.

19. Η φάβα με παντζάρια μπορεί να σερβιριστεί ζεστή ή σε θερμοκρασία δωματίου, ως ορεκτικό ή κυρίως πιάτο.

20. Γαρνίρετε τη πασπαλίζοντας από πάνω τον ψιλοκομμένο μαϊντανό, λίγο ακόμα αλεσμένο πιπέρι και τις κρατημένες φέτες από παντζάρι.

21. Επιπλέον, μπορείτε να προσθέσετε φέτες λάιμ στο πλάι και λίγο Χταπόδι (Πακέτο Στο Φούρνο) Ξιδάτο πάνω από τον πουρέ της φάβας.

Ένα εύκολο, ορεκτικό πιάτο για το καλοκαίρι ή τη Σαρακοστή. Μια εξαιρετική ρουμπινί απόλαυση με ούζο και σπιτικά κριτσίνια!

Δ. Πληροφορίες φύλαξης:

Η φάβα μπορεί να διατηρηθεί, αφού κρυώσει, σε αεροστεγές δοχείο στο ψυγείο, έως και μία εβδομάδα.

Κοιτάξτε επίσης την συνταγή μου σε YouTube βίντεο, το λίνκ είναι: ΕΔΩ

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