#recipe guide ~ [ reference ]

[teabutmakeitazure]

Zuri's Declassified University Survival Guide

This is a post about survival tips in university (undergraduate), especially if you're an international student living alone in a different country in this circumstance. I will be adding onto this later on if there's something I want to add, so keep an eye out for update reblogs of this I guess.

General Tips:

it's okay to make mistakes. you are here to learn and grow. no one is perfect, especially in the first and second year of their studies. those are mandatory experimental years. you're not expected to get magically mature and perfect when you get to university (or college for you americans). be kind to yourself and analyse your mistakes instead of beating yourself over them.

don't bother too much about your wardrobe. just wear whatever's comfortable. you might think people care but no one does. more than half of the people at campus will be in sweats or pyjamas and if someone IS dressed up, they're probably arts kids or business majors and they're the ones with the least workload (yes i am dissing you guys I've seen your workloads stop lying).

put yourself in uncomfortable social situations. yes i said that. the only reason i somewhat learnt to make small talk and learnt to talk to strangers is because I go to every single social event that I can. it's not necessary to make friends in all of them. just talk to people, exchange contacts, laugh while the event lasts even if you never see them again. this is how you survive in the lonely dorm life. and if you make an actual good friend? amazing! it paid off. even if it didn't you'll probably network and build rapport and have acquaintances from different majors.

if you're an ethnic minority, don't be afraid. I cannot stress this enough. don't be afraid to be there and take up space. you are there because you deserve to be and qualified. sure, it sucks at times because a good amount of people won't interact with you because you're 'different' but the international students will and trust me they're the coolest bunch to be friends with (I have 0 such friends so far). most times you will have to take the initiative to talk and sometimes they won't respond or worse flat out ignore you but don't let that get you down. just don't interact with them again. the world is big. not everyone will like you and accept you. find the ones that will.

eggs and milk are your best friend. a glass of milk everyday and 2 eggs. make that a staple. eggs are also very versatile for recipes. more on that in the recipes section. also yoghurt. a smol cup of yoghurt everyday too and nuts whenever you can buy them.

always have a few pack of instant noodles at home. sometimes you have deadlines or you forgot to cook or need a quick dinner because there's so much to do and you didn't get groceries. always keep them in stock. they're a quick fix for food. I'm not promoting them for frequent dinner but it's better than starving. just eat the noodles man. there's already so much shit to keep track of just eat the damn noodles.

incorporate veggies into everything food. they're good for you. if you're like me and don't like veggies, experiment with different recipes and find the one you like best. one good way is fried rice or rice with mushrooms, veggies, and meat in the rice cooker (I don't own a rice cooker when I'm writing this). just eat your veggies and thank me later. if you don't wanna cut them up, get a pack of frozen veggies. it's better than nothing. baby steps.

meal plan. if I don't plan my entire week's food on sunday night, I do it the night before for the next day. eat out as less as you can. homemade is better even if you're a horrible cook. practice makes perfect and you'll be grateful for learning a few basic cooking skills along with your degree later on. cooking your own food also gives you the liberty to add more veggies or save money.

treat yourself to stuff sometimes. yes you deserve it even if you don't meet your goals. you're trying. be kind to yourself. get that boba.

study everything done the week by that week's weekend. do the day's content that same day and don't lag behind. utilise reading week and read. don't slack off please I'm begging you. I'll even get on my knees if I have to.

you're gonna miss home and it sucks. yes you will be having your fourth mental breakdown of the week on a wednesday night and you will be alone or hiding under the blanket as your roommate is asleep. you're gonna have to tough it out soldier. I see you and I feel you. it gets easier with time and when you're doing better, you'll feel relieved for toughing through. it's so lonely sometimes and it sucks but it's worth the pain. don't lose hope.

seniors are your friends. they will give you forbidden knowledge for free. from hidden places with good food or convenience things or just life advice exclusive to your institute, they have it all. they're also generally very friendly so don't be afraid to interact with them.

annoy the living hell out of your professor during office hours if need be and utilise the student help room for help. your tutors will be happy to help you so don't be shy to ask for help. they will appreciate you coming to them, trust me. as for your professor, they're lonely people. go to office hours if you need to, chat, ask them what you need. they'll appreciate your presence and happily help you.

the security guards and cleaning staff will be witnesses to your worst states (freshly out of bed or haven't showered in 2 days) but they don't care. they're just happy to be of service and have you around. be kind to them. greet them whenever you pass by.

sometimes coffee is bad.

if your classes start at noon or later, get an hour of exercise in the morning at around 8 or 9 am. the serotonin that will hit you will be unreal. trust me.

make local friends. they're cool people and friendly and very helpful and accommodating. I may be biased but it's true.

being a student helper, student tutor, or a research assistant looks good on your resume and helps you win more scholarships.

put headphones on when in public if you don't want to end up talking to someone you might bump into. it works.

your body also has rights. treat it with care. don't abuse it. nourish it. you should take care of your body like you would a loved one. feed it good things, clean it everyday, and so on. when you feel good by taking care of yourself, you still do better and feel more confident. wash your hair with a set schedule and use good products.

make your wardrobe easier. hang your usual shirts and maybe wear the one in front each day, the previous day's being hung in the back or in the laundry basket. it saves time.

there's no shame in not having stuff. I still don't own a proper laundry basket it all goes into an IKEA bag. you live in a dorm, not a house. sometimes not having every single kind of furniture or accessory isn't bad. don't compare your setup to others. if it's convenient, clean, and homey, it's good. you don't need those expensive lights or those expensive posters to make it seem cool. what you have and what you may collect among the way is enough.

notes on paper are better than laptop or ipad

take breaks. be kind to yourself. it is you for yourself. treat yourself with love.

manage your time by designating time blocks to a certain task. it might not always work but it will help create some discipline in the routine.

having a set everyday routine helps. you don't have to think what to do, thus saving you brain power.

use a semester planner for deadlines and important information. it's useful. I highly recommend. I also have a template if anyone wants.

write down your thoughts, what's bothering you, your feelings, everything on a piece of paper or journal at the end of the day. it'll help process your emotions and you won't have to let the thoughts and emotions fester inside you, slowly simmering and coming to a boil. remember, you are your best friend.

Recipes to help you stay afloat (they're all quick and easy dw):

right off the bat I want to say boiled jasmine rice with sunny side up eggs. you drizzle a pinch of salt onto the yolk, break it over the rice, mix it with the rice and eat it and it's just *chef's kiss*. definitely a comfort food and a very easy quick dinner.

a lot of these I found while scrolling through instagram and some are from when I was trying to lose weight. hope they're helpful!

oyakodon

one pot rice cooker rice with veggies

veggie and meat single serve in one pot

chicken wrap (primarily for weight loss I think)

chicken gyros (this guy makes amazing food)

minced meat weight loss meal prep

chickpeas (chana masala. this shit is bussin i swear)

something tomato + onion + egg

one pot veggie rice (recommended)

chicken shawarma (not dorm friendly cooking but looks delicious)

egg sandwich in one pan

potato marraka (THIS IS SO GOOD)

one pot rice cooker with meat and veggies

daal

chicken and rice

pizza style chicken wrap

five different chicken marinades for meal prep

one pot biryani

takeout style egg fried rice

rice cooker carbonara

one pot yoghurt curry chicken rice

weight loss chicken shawarma

healthier mac and cheese

chicken fajita

chicken tikka masala crunch tacos

one pan braised eggs

air fryer garlic bread pizza

another veggie and rice in rice cooker

fried rice recipe

hainanese inspired chicken rice in rice cooker

tomato orzo(?)

creamy tomato pasta

tomato and egg rice

mushroom sauce (can be eaten with rice)

creamy tomato tortellini

grilled cheese sandwich

#yes im referring to ned's declassified school survival guide #damn i miss that show #this is more for myself than anyone else #i got to compile all the recipes with this as an excuse nice #anyway hope this helped #i know I'm a yandere writing blog but i can also be helpful sometimes #zuri's declassified university survival guide #took me 2 hours but meh #college tips #university tips

[captainsparklefingers]

You know what one of the skills of a good baker is? Being able to follow a recipe.

You know what's NOT a good recipe? 'make a lemon meringue pie'.

Even if you've made a lemon meringue pie hundreds of times before, even if you know how to do it, there are things you have to consider, like ingredient amounts, bake time, accounting for baking with a different oven and possibly different temperatures, using tools you may not typically be used to using to make your pie, a TIME CONSTRAINT that may not match what you usually use.

A decent recipe would provide that information. A paired down recipe should at least give you more than 'make the fucking pie'. It should at LEAST give you amounts to work with. Or an oven temperature. Or both.

It should, at the VERY FUCKING LEAST. GIVE YOU AN INGREDIENT LIST.

Every time I think the technical challenges might be improving or might be something that actually represents technical skills a baker should know even if the recipe itself is unfamiliar, they do something like this. Or like having tacos bring your technical for a baking show. Or tossing in maid of honor tarts that nobody has literally ever heard of. Or expecting a bagel to be crunchy and being surprised when a babka is on the heavy side. Or. You know. Most of the technical challenges in the last few seasons.

Prue and Paul are awful people for doing this. The showrunners should have put a leash on them to stop them from making the technical a nightmare ages ago. Especially when, half the time, it doesn't seem to factor into the judging (remember Helena winning technical on the week she left?).

I understand the showstoppers being intricate and insane (to a degree, the portrait cakes were a mistake), because they're showstoppers. They're supposed to be special and elaborate and not something you make every day. I understand the signature parameters. They might not always be simple but they're things people know how to do.

The technical? I have NO IDEA what the technical means anymore, beyond pain and making the bakers suffer and turning their work into a big joke.

#great british bake off #gbbo #gbbo spoilers #seriously that was just unnecessary and mean what the hell were they thinking #ive made lemon curd and lemon pie filling several times before #and i dont have how to do that memorized #because why would I when theres a good recipe to guide me? #and even if I can do bits on my own without needing a reference #having a thing to check and compare to is important #I hope prue gets all the shit for this #paul too because you know he's thought about doing this #mary berry would never #terrible. simple unkind and unfair and bad.

[geesenoises]

i've cooked thanksgiving just about single-handedly for the last 4 years. this will be my fifth. i feel deeply satisfied with my incremental organizational advancements over the years.

#i have a google drive folder with all the recipes i use copy + pasted from the internet #i may work on doing a quick reference grocery shopping guide so i don't have to re-write it every year #the first year i made everything down to the bread in the stuffing from scratch #also had a timeline of what to prep in the days before #and then what time things needed to go in the oven #i'm more chill about it these days #(marginally lmao)

[refsandresources]

Intro

So this is just a placeholder for now, but this is a side blog (main @helixfruit) I plan to use as a place to archive posts I want to reference again.

These include:

Drawing references (both poses and photographs)

Photographs that inspire me to draw in some way

Tutorials

Compilations of resources

Guides

Recipes

I'm gonna do my best to come up with a solid tagging system to make it easy to find everything.

#helixfruit #intro post #reference #resources #drawing reference #tutorial #guide #recipe

[copperbadge]

I'm getting depressingly good at identifying the formula for Pop Academic Books About ADHD.

Regardless of their philosophy it pretty much goes like this:

1. Emotionally sensitive essay about the struggle of ADHD and the author's personal experience with it as both a person with ADHD and a healthcare professional.

2. Either during or directly following this, a lightly explicated catalogue of symptoms, illustrated by anecdotes from patient case studies. Optional: frequent, heavy use of metaphor to explain ADHD-driven behavior.

3. Several chapters follow, each dedicated to a symptom; these have a mini-formula of their own. They open with a patient case study, discuss the highly relatable aspects of the specific symptom or behavior, then offer some lightweight examples of a treatment for the symptom, usually accompanied by follow up results from the earlier case studies.

4. Somewhere around halfway-to-two-thirds through the book, the author introduces the more in-depth explication of the treatment system (often their own homebrew) they are advocating. These are generally both personally-driven (as opposed to suggested cultural changes, which makes sense given these books' target audience, more on this later) and composed of an elaborate system of either behavior alteration or mental reframing. Whether this system is actually implementable by the average reader varies wildly.

5. A brief optional section on how to make use of ADHD as a tool (usually referring to ADHD or some of its symptoms as a superpower at least once). Sometimes this section restates the importance of using the systems from part 4 to harness that superpower. Frequently, if present, it feels like an afterthought.

6. Summation and list of further resources, often including other books which follow this formula.

I know I'm being a little sarcastic, but realistically there's nothing inherently wrong about the formula, like in itself it's not a red flag. It's just hilariously recognizable once you've noticed it.

It makes sense that these books advocate for the Reader With ADHD undertaking personal responsibility for their treatment, since these are in the tradition of self-help publishing. They're aimed at people who are already interested in doing their own research on their disability and possible ways to handle it. It's not really fair to ask them to be policy manuals, but I do find it interesting that even books which advocate stuff like volunteering (for whatever reason, usually to do with socialization issues and isolation, often DBT-adjacent) never suggest disability activism either generally or with an ADHD-specific bent.

None of these books suggest that perhaps life with ADHD could be made easier with increased accommodations or ease of medication access, and that it might be in a person's best interest to engage in political advocacy surrounding these and other disability-related issues. Or that activism related to ADHD might help to give someone with ADHD a stronger sense of ownership of their unique neurology. Or that if you have ADHD the idea of activism or even medical self-advocacy is crushingly stressful, and ways that stress might be dealt with.

It does make me want to write one of my own. "The Deviant Chaos Guide To Being A Miscreant With ADHD". Includes chapters on how to get an actual accurate assessment, tips for managing a prescription for a controlled substance, medical and psychiatric self-advocacy for people who are conditioned against confrontation, When To Lie About Being Neurodivergent, policy suggestions for ADHD-related legislation, tips for activism while executively dysfunked, and to close the book a biting satire of the pop media idea of self-care. ("Feeling sad? Make yourself a nice pot of chicken soup from scratch and you'll feel better in no time. Stay tuned after this rambling personal essay for the most mediocre chicken soup recipe you've ever seen!" "Have you considered planning and executing an overly elaborate criminal heist as a way to meet people and stay busy?")

Every case study or personal anecdote in the book will have a different name and demographics attached but will also make it obvious that they are all really just me, in the prose equivalent of a cheap wig, writing about my life. "Kelly, age seven, says she struggles to stay organized using the systems neurotypical children might find easy. I had to design my own accounting spreadsheet in order to make sure I always have enough in checking to cover the mortgage, she told me, fidgeting with the pop socket on her smartphone."

I feel a little bad making fun, because these books are often the best resource people can get (in itself concerning). It's like how despite my dislike of AA, I don't dunk on it in public because I don't want to offer people an excuse not to seek help. It feels like punching down to criticize these books, even though it's a swing at an industry that is mainly, it seems, here to profit from me. But one does get tired of skimming the hype for the real content only to find the real content isn't that useful either.

Les (not his real name) was diagnosed at the age of 236. Charming, well-read, and wealthy, he still spent much of his afterlife feeling deeply inadequate about his perceived shortcomings. "Vampire culture doesn't really acknowledge ADHD as a condition," he says. "My sire wouldn't understand, even though he probably has it as well. You should see the number of coffins containing the soil of his homeland that he's left lying forgotten all over Europe." A late diagnosis validated his feelings of difference, but on its own can't help when he hyperfocuses on seducing mortals who cross his path and forgets to get home before sunrise. "I have stock in sunburn gel companies," he jokes.

#sam has adhd #self help #satire

[curious-kitchen-witch]

A neurodivergent witch's guide to starting a grimoire 🌿✨️

I remember when I was first starting out with building a grimoire and getting frustrated with how few resources there are on what a grimoire is supposed to be. I wanted clear directions and examples of what to include, but I mostly found YouTubers giving vague descriptions and repeating over and over again that it's extremely personal and private so they wouldn't say anything specific. As a neurodivergent person, it was very frustrating to try to figure out what to do from that. It took me a while to figure out what my own specifics were, so for any beginner witches out there, here are some specific ideas for starting off! Once you get more used to it, it'll get easier and easier to figure out what you do and don't want to include.

I'd recommend researching sigils and creating one to protect your grimoire; I placed mine on the second page after I dedicated the notebook for it, but you can put it wherever you feel like

Dates of moon cycles/information on how they affect your practice

Wheel of the year/sabbats if you celebrate them

Record rituals for sabbats if you choose to do anything for them, that way you have a reference for next year

Information on the elements- earth, air, fire, water, and/or spirit depending on your practice

Information on herbs or crystals you have- I like to print out pictures to include with the correspondences and leave space to write down specific things I use them for

Also, a quick reference list of ways you can care for individual crystals will be very helpful if you use them! Pay extra attention to which ones are sensitive to sun or water, it'll save you crystals later on

Basics of tarot, runes, or other divination methods

Color correspondences!

Information on zodiac signs; I printed out my star chart and put it in

When you do spellwork, write down everything you did and date it. Later you can come back and update whether it worked, what the effects were, and tweak it if necessary- basically treat it like a magic recipe book

A grimoire is not the same as a journal- if you want to write down personal reflections on meditation or your emotional experiences, I would suggest using a separate notebook for those things.

While I understand why people are so hesitant to show their grimoires, I have no qualms with showing a few pages for example purposes. However, I would suggest that you don't share anything that is personalized to your craft to others unless you can 100% guarantee that they won't cause you harm with it.

The only reason I'm ok with putting pictures on here is because they're full of basic information that anyone with Google could find and nothing that's specific to me.

With that being said, here are a few examples from my own grimoire as a reference!

#witchcraft #witch #witch community #beginner witch #book of shadows #grimoire #nd witch #neurodivergent witch

[southernmermaidsgrotto]

Herbalism book reccomendations 📚🌿

General herbalism:

The Herbal Medicine-Maker's Handbook by Green J. (2011)

20,000 Secrets of Tea: The Most Effective Ways to Benefit from Nature's Healing Herbs by Zak V. (1999)

The Modern Herbal Dispensatory: A Medicine-Making Guid by Easly T. (2016)

A-Z Guide to Drug-Herb-Vitamin Interactions by Gaby A.R.

American Herbal Products Association's Botanical Safety Handbook (2013) 

Medical Herbalism: The Science and Practice of Herbal Medicine by Hoffman D. (2003)

Herbal Medicine for Beginners: Your Guide to Healing Common Ailments with 35 Medicinal Herbs by Swift K & Midura R (2018)

Today's Herbal Health: The Essential Reference Guide by Tenney L. (1983)

Today's Herbal Health for Women: The Modern Woman's Natural Health Guide by Tenney L (1996)

Today's Herbal Health for Children: A Comprehensive Guide to Understanding Nutrition and Herbal Medicine for Children by Tenney L. (1996)

For my black folks!!!

African Medicine: A Complete Guide to Yoruba Healing Science and African Herbal Remedies by Sawandi T.M. (2017)

Handbook of African Medicinal Plants by Iwu M.M. (1993)

Working The Roots: Over 400 Years of Traditional African American Healing by Lee M.E. (2017)

Hoodoo Medicine: Gullah Herbal Remedies by Mitchell F. (2011)

African American Slave Medicine: Herbal and non-Herbal Treatments by Covey H.C. (2008)

The Art & Practice of Spiritual Herbalism: Transform, Heal, and Remember with the Power of Plants and Ancestral Medicine by Rose K.M. (2022)

Indigenous authors & perspectives!!

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Kimmerer R.W. (2015)

Gathering moss by Kimmerer R.W. (2003)

The Plants Have So Much To Give All We Have To Do Is Ask by Siisip Geniusz M. (2005)

Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings by Djinn Geniusz W. (2009)

Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: ethnobotany and ecological wisdom of indigenous peoples of northwestern North America by Turner N. (2014)

A Taste of Heritage: Crow Indian Recipes and Herbal Medicines by Hogan Snell A. (2006)

Medicines to Help Us by Belcourt C. (2007)

After the First Full Moon in April: A Sourcebook of Herbal Medicine from a California Indian Elder by Grant Peters J. (2010)

Latin american herbalism works!!

Earth Medicines: Ancestral Wisdom, Healing Recipes, and Wellness Rituals from a Curandera by Cocotzin Ruiz F. (2021)

Hierbas y plantas curativas by Chiti J.F. (2015)

Del cuerpo a las raíces by San Martín P.P., Cheuquelaf I. & Cerpa C. (2011)

Manual introductorio a la Ginecología Natural by San Martín P.P.

🌿This is what I have for now but I’ll update the post as I find and read new works, so keep coming if you wanna check for updates. Thank you for reading 🌿

#herbalism #herbal medicine #herbal health #green witch #green witchcraft #green magic #herbal magic #herbal witch #herbal witchcraft #plant medicine #plant magic #plant witch #folk healer #healing witch #healing magic #curanderismo #yerbera #curandera #rootwork #rootworker

[blackwoolncrown]

Reading list for Afro-Herbalism:

A Healing Grove: African Tree Remedies and Rituals for the Body and Spirit by Stephanie Rose Bird

Affrilachia: Poems by Frank X Walker

African American Medicine in Washington, D.C.: Healing the Capital During the Civil War Era by Heather Butts

African American Midwifery in the South: Dialogues of Birth, Race, and Memory by Gertrude Jacinta Fraser

African American Slave Medicine: Herbal and Non-Herbal Treatments by Herbert Covey

African Ethnobotany in the Americas edited by Robert Voeks and John Rashford

Africanisms in the Gullah Dialect by Lorenzo Dow Turner

Africans and Native Americans: The Language of Race and the Evolution of Red-Black Peoples by Jack Forbes

African Medicine: A Complete Guide to Yoruba Healing Science and African Herbal Remedies by Dr. Tariq M. Sawandi, PhD

Afro-Vegan: Farm-Fresh, African, Caribbean, and Southern Flavors Remixed by Bryant Terry

Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo” by Zora Neale Hurston

Big Mama’s Back in the Kitchen by Charlene Johnson

Big Mama’s Old Black Pot by Ethel Dixon

Black Belief: Folk Beliefs of Blacks in America and West Africa by Henry H. Mitchell

Black Diamonds, Vol. 1 No. 1 and Vol. 1 Nos. 2–3 edited by Edward J. Cabbell

Black Faces, White Spaces: Reimagining the Relationship of African Americans to the Great Outdoors by Carolyn Finney

Black Food Geographies: Race, Self-Reliance, and Food Access in Washington, D.C. by Ashanté M. Reese

Black Indian Slave Narratives edited by Patrick Minges

Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition by Yvonne P. Chireau

Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry edited by Camille T. Dungy

Blacks in Appalachia edited by William Turner and Edward J. Cabbell

Caribbean Vegan: Meat-Free, Egg-Free, Dairy-Free Authentic Island Cuisine for Every Occasion by Taymer Mason

Dreams of Africa in Alabama: The Slave Ship Clotilda and the Story of the Last Africans Brought to America by Sylviane Diouf

Faith, Health, and Healing in African American Life by Emilie Townes and Stephanie Y. Mitchem

Farming While Black: Soul Fire Farm’s Practical Guide to Liberation on the Land by Leah Penniman

Folk Wisdom and Mother Wit: John Lee – An African American Herbal Healer by John Lee and Arvilla Payne-Jackson

Four Seasons of Mojo: An Herbal Guide to Natural Living by Stephanie Rose Bird

Freedom Farmers: Agricultural Resistance and the Black Freedom Movement by Monica White

Fruits of the Harvest: Recipes to Celebrate Kwanzaa and Other Holidays by Eric Copage

George Washington Carver by Tonya Bolden

George Washington Carver: In His Own Words edited by Gary Kremer

God, Dr. Buzzard, and the Bolito Man: A Saltwater Geechee Talks About Life on Sapelo Island, Georgia by Cornelia Bailey

Gone Home: Race and Roots through Appalachia by Karida Brown

Ethno-Botany of the Black Americans by William Ed Grime

Gullah Cuisine: By Land and by Sea by Charlotte Jenkins and William Baldwin

Gullah Culture in America by Emory Shaw Campbell and Wilbur Cross

Gullah/Geechee: Africa’s Seeds in the Winds of the Diaspora-St. Helena’s Serenity by Queen Quet Marquetta Goodwine

High on the Hog: A Culinary Journey from Africa to America by Jessica Harris and Maya Angelou

Homecoming: The Story of African-American Farmers by Charlene Gilbert

Hoodoo Medicine: Gullah Herbal Remedies by Faith Mitchell

Jambalaya: The Natural Woman’s Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals by Luisah Teish

Just Medicine: A Cure for Racial Inequality in American Health Care by Dayna Bowen Matthew

Leaves of Green: A Handbook of Herbal Remedies by Maude E. Scott

Like a Weaving: References and Resources on Black Appalachians by Edward J. Cabbell

Listen to Me Good: The Story of an Alabama Midwife by Margaret Charles Smith and Linda Janet Holmes

Making Gullah: A History of Sapelo Islanders, Race, and the American Imagination by Melissa Cooper

Mandy’s Favorite Louisiana Recipes by Natalie V. Scott

Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present by Harriet Washington

Mojo Workin’: The Old African American Hoodoo System by Katrina Hazzard-Donald

Motherwit: An Alabama Midwife’s Story by Onnie Lee Logan as told to Katherine Clark

My Bag Was Always Packed: The Life and Times of a Virginia Midwife by Claudine Curry Smith and Mildred Hopkins Baker Roberson

My Face Is Black Is True: Callie House and the Struggle for Ex-Slave Reparations by Mary Frances Berry

My Grandmother's Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies by Resmaa Menakem

On Her Own Ground: The Life and Times of Madam C.J. Walker by A'Lelia Bundles

Papa Jim’s Herbal Magic Workbook by Papa Jim

Places for the Spirit: Traditional African American Gardens by Vaughn Sills (Photographer), Hilton Als (Foreword), Lowry Pei (Introduction)

Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome by Dr. Joy DeGruy

Rooted in the Earth: Reclaiming the African American Environmental Heritage by Diane Glave

Rufus Estes’ Good Things to Eat: The First Cookbook by an African-American Chef by Rufus Estes

Secret Doctors: Ethnomedicine of African Americans by Wonda Fontenot

Sex, Sickness, and Slavery: Illness in the Antebellum South by Marli Weiner with Mayzie Hough

Slavery’s Exiles: The Story of the American Maroons by Sylviane Diouf

Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time by Adrian Miller

Spirituality and the Black Helping Tradition in Social Work by Elmer P. Martin Jr. and Joanne Mitchell Martin

Sticks, Stones, Roots & Bones: Hoodoo, Mojo & Conjuring with Herbs by Stephanie Rose Bird

The African-American Heritage Cookbook: Traditional Recipes and Fond Remembrances from Alabama’s Renowned Tuskegee Institute by Carolyn Quick Tillery

The Black Family Reunion Cookbook (Recipes and Food Memories from the National Council of Negro Women) edited by Libby Clark

The Conjure Woman and Other Conjure Tales by Charles Chesnutt

The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature by J. Drew Lanham

The Jemima Code: Two Centuries of African American Cookbooks by Toni Tipton-Martin

The President’s Kitchen Cabinet: The Story of the African Americans Who Have Fed Our First Families, from the Washingtons to the Obamas by Adrian Miller

The Taste of Country Cooking: The 30th Anniversary Edition of a Great Classic Southern Cookbook by Edna Lewis

The Tuskegee Syphilis Study: An Insiders’ Account of the Shocking Medical Experiment Conducted by Government Doctors Against African American Men by Fred D. Gray

Trace: Memory, History, Race, and the American Landscape by Lauret E. Savoy

Vegan Soul Kitchen: Fresh, Healthy, and Creative African-American Cuisine by Bryant Terry

Vibration Cooking: Or, The Travel Notes of a Geechee Girl by Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor

Voodoo and Hoodoo: The Craft as Revealed by Traditional Practitioners by Jim Haskins

When Roots Die: Endangered Traditions on the Sea Islands by Patricia Jones-Jackson

Working Conjure: A Guide to Hoodoo Folk Magic by Hoodoo Sen Moise

Working the Roots: Over 400 Years of Traditional African American Healing by Michelle Lee

Wurkn Dem Rootz: Ancestral Hoodoo by Medicine Man

Zora Neale Hurston: Folklore, Memoirs, and Other Writings: Mules and Men, Tell My Horse, Dust Tracks on a Road, Selected Articles by Zora Neale Hurston

The Ways of Herbalism in the African World with Olatokunboh Obasi MSc, RH (webinar via The American Herbalists Guild)

#herbalism #african american #rootwork #african #native american #hoodoo #voodoo

[thelightsandtheroses]

2. soak up the sun

Let's Get Lost Chapter 2 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Summary: You and Frankie aren’t together anymore but you’re in a good place. However, spending a week together for your mutual friends’ wedding on a luxury resort might challenge that slightly and realising you’re still in love with your ex is a sure-fire recipe for disaster … Tropes: it was always you, getting back with the ex, beach!Frankie (you know *that* photoshoot) miscommunication, only one bed, good parent Frankie Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, refereneces to past drug addiction, discussions of food, small mentions of various insecurities and body image, passing reference to alcohol, Frankie and the reader are parents to a toddler, past break-ups. Word Count: 2807 Notes: Thank you for the lovely feedback so far - it's meant so much to me and I hope you enjoy this update. I have a lot planned for this fic. The chapter title is from Sheryl Crow's song of the same name.

Previous | Series | Next

There’s nothing quite like a breakfast buffet. Whenever you travel, you can’t help but judge the hotel, judge the entire stay by the quality of the breakfast. If the coffee is good, if the food is fresh and tasty, if it feels welcoming … that’s the magic formula - for you, at least.

After an inauspicious start to your vacation, you’re hoping that the breakfast will be a silver lining, that you can recharge before trying to resolve the room situation.

It was hard to sleep last night. You were so aware of Frankie on the other side of the pillow barrier, so anxious over everything that had gone wrong. You couldn’t play your sleep stories or calming music and your room and bed felt so unfamiliar.

You need to relax.

You need to hold things together for Lia and Clara, because this week is about them and not the messes of your current state of mind or relationship with Frankie.

 Clara is holding Frankie’s hand and happily pulling him ahead as he tries to guide her to the right place.

When you arrive in the veranda, you can see Lia, Benny, Will and Sophie, Wil’s wife, as well as Santiago already occupying a large table. Lia waves you over with a smile.

She immediately pulls you into a hug as you approach and you’re hit with your friend’s comforting presence, her familiar scent of coconut and vanilla. “Finally,” she says, “Now we’re all here.”

You look over to see Frankie giving Santiago a one-armed hug before Santi pays attention to Clara.

“Clara, look at you,” he says, adding in Spanish, “you’re so tall now, huh?” He nods cordially to acknowledge you as you sit next to Sophie. 

“Heard your flight got delayed?” Will asks calmly, his arm casually resting on Sophie’s chair. Sophie’s intelligent and smart and incredibly pretty to boot. You do get on with her, but you can’t help remembering Will and Sophie’s wedding every time you see then. It’s an automatic, almost Pavlovian response that leaves you with a dry throat and sweaty palms. You’re sure she remembers that night too. It was a real lowlight for you and Frankie after all.

  You hope Benny’s wedding will be an improvement.

Surely it can’t be any worse than Will’s?

You break out of your reverie and look over at Will, answering his question, “Yeah, it wasn’t that bad. Only a couple of hours in the end.” You can’t mention the room debacle yet and judging by Frankie’s subtle nod to you, he’s in agreement with you on that. “How’s the coffee?” you ask, the hope palpable in your voice.

“Amazing,” Sophie says, “Really good quality and fresh.” She winks at you, clearly remembering your breakfast litmus test.

Well, that’s something then.

Fifteen minutes later, you’ve almost finished your first cup of coffee, Clara is eating her eggs under her Tio Santi’s careful supervision. It’s funny watching Santi with her; he never struck you as particularly paternal, perhaps because he never seemed to put roots down anywhere, but Clara adores him. She adores all of Frankie’s close friends. Benny is brilliant with her, so’s Will.

Despite Frankie having less and less contact with his biological family over the years, he’s given Clara the gift of his chosen family. You can’t pretend to understand the bond and brotherhood between Frankie, Will, Santi and Benny - it runs deep. It’s enough to know that they’re his brothers. They’ll always be his brothers.

You take a bite of your own breakfast, daring yourself to relax just a little. Sophie’s right - the coffee is good.

Hope loosens the tight thread around your stomach just a fraction.

“What’s your plan for today then?” Lia asks. ”Just settling in?“

“I think someone wants to go to the beach,” you say, indicating Clara.

“A beach day sounds great. We should all go, before things get hectic.”

“Thanks,” you say in a low voice. “What do you need from me over the next few days? I know I’ve been a shitty bridesmaid recently, so just tell me what you need.”

“Right now? We’re good. I’m just so glad you’re here,” Lia says.

It’s peaceful. The steady rhythm of waves flowing and withdrawing barely conceal the soft giggles you can hear from Clara with Frankie a few meters away.

Next to you, Lia and Benny are sunbathing. Lia is lounging against him, a glossy magazine in one hand and what you suspect is a frozen strawberry daiquiri in the other hand. The two of them look like models; skin glowing in the sun, colour coordinated swimwear and sunglasses in place. They’re perfect for each other.

It hits you suddenly; you’re surrounded by couples. Even Santi is off flirting with someone by the water.

You scrunch your toes into the golden sand and exhale slowly.

It’s hard to stop your brain thinking about work for the first few days of a holiday; you find your fingers automatically twitching as they want to reach for a phone or laptop to check emails and messages.

They can cope without you. You know that. It’s just your anxiety, just the corporate machine and it shouldn’t matter. What you should be thinking about is your family, is Lia’s wedding, being a good bridesmaid, a good mother, a good friend and co-parent with Frankie.

You think back to your conversation with the hotel staff before coming to the beach. It turns out there is no alternative room for you or Frankie until the final night of your stay. The hotel is fully booked, so unless one of you stays somewhere else then you’re stuck in the same hotel room for most of the week.

It’s not fair on either of you to be somewhere else either - not when you’re both in the wedding party, both Clara’s parents.

It doesn’t feel like you have much of a choice. 

You’re not sure how to tell Frankie about the conversation you’ve just had with the hotel. It isn’t your fault, not technically, but somehow it feels like another in a long list of failures.

You watch your daughter building a sandcastle. She looks so happy; half covered in sand and clapping her hands in delight as Frankie carefully lifts the sandcastle bucket.  You hold your breath for a second in the hope that one particularly shaky looking turret holds out.

She’s having a great time at least. That’s what you really wanted.

You put your book down, standing up to go and join the two of them.

“Hey Clara, mum’s here,” Frankie says, waving you over with a smile. You can’t help but notice the way sand has slightly stuck to his thigh while he’s been building the castle with Clara and how he’s already unbuttoned his shirt by a scandalous three buttons.

“Hi sweetie,” you say, “that is an amazing sandcastle. Did you build that one all by yourself?”

Clara purses her lips, deep in thought. She looks at Frankie and then at you and for a second she nods then shakes her head. “Daddy helped.”

“Only a bit,” he says kindly.

“Yeah, I can tell someone with an engineering background has been involved,” you joke which earns you one of Frankie’s best smiles. It’s one of the dazzling ones that made you fall in love with him the first time.

“Did uh, everything go okay with -” Frankie begins as he stands up, grimacing briefly and covering it immediately.

“We can talk about it later,” you say, smiling unnaturally brightly and quickly looking at Clara and then the others.

Frankie immediately understands your implications - you watch a range of emotions dance across his eyes before he settles with a similarly bright but false smile.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “We’ll be fine. It’s just a week, right?”

You smile weakly and nod. There’s always the bathtub, maybe Frankie was right about that.

You can hear music lightly playing as you and Clara walk back into the hotel room. She’s stifling a yawn, clearly already tired from the day’s events so far. There’s just enough time for you to have a quick shower before you head out for the early family dinner you have planned.

Frankie and you have discussed it in depth and spoken to the hotel babysitting service but you agreed to save that for wedding related events. There’s no reason the two of you can’t work it out between yourselves the rest of the time and ensure at least one of you is with your daughter. Plus, the whole idea’s about giving Clara that family holiday, right?

Frankie’s reading on the bed and looks up at the two of you.

“Hey guys,” he says as Clara immediately bounds towards him.

“Daddy!” she cries, as though they have been separated for weeks not a couple of hours.

He shakes his head, raising an eyebrow at you.

Your only response is a quick shrug. “Do you mind if I have a shower before we head for dinner? I’m thinking if we both use the bathroom before we put Clara to b-well, you know where -”

“Sounds like a plan. I had a shower when I got in, so it’s all yours.”

“Great.”

Frankie places his book face down on the bed and diverts his attention to your daughter.

You loiter for just a moment before heading to the bathroom; you’ve been looking forward to this shower all day. The hotel bathroom is well appointed to say the least and the fancy, rainfall shower with all the attachments and luxurious smelling shampoo has sung to your sun and sand stressed body.

You start to feel relaxed as you wrap the white fluffy towel around your body and continue your self-care routine. Why not allow yourself some small indulgences while you’re on holiday after all?

It’s then you realise that you forgot your clean clothes. You were wearing your  beach clothes when you walked into the bathroom; your costume  is now hanging up to dry after all, taunting you slightly, and your cover up is sheer and oh, you have made a definite mistake here.

You feel the heat rising as you try and think about what to do.

“Frankie, can you just shut your eyes a minute?” you ask, pursing your lips as wrap the towel tighter around yourself.

“Why?” Frankie calls from the room then you hear him make a slightly embarrassed sound as he clearly figures it out. “I mean, it’s okay. It’s fine. Just uh, just tell me when.”

It’s fine, you think, you used to date after all. He’s seen you so many times in far worse states. For a second you remember how things used to be between you and Frankie. At one point, you wondered if there was a surface in your house you hadn’t been with him on. He seemed to take that as a challenge when you asked him.

You can almost hear the echoing laughter and memories as they sweep over you, a wave of emotion, regret, sadness and then finally a sad tang of bitterness.

You take a deep breath. “Okay, now,” you say and then you open the door.

He has his eyes covered with one hand but he has a wicked smirk and you can’t help but wonder if he is peeking, if he thinks you still look … no, this isn’t healthy.

You shuffle around in the towel to try and discreetly change, almost tripping over one of Clara’s toys on the way.

The clatter makes Frankie straighten slightly.

“False alarm,” you say, voice low as an unspoken tension fills the room.

“Good,” he says, one hand still casually covering those eyes.

You finally pull your trousers up and tug the light white top over your shoulders.

“Okay, it’s safe now.”

“Great.” He looks over at you with a slight smile. “You look good, cielo.” The old nickname slips out and his eyes widen, panic filling his face.

The tension in the room thickens. Somehow it feels like you’re in two realities simultaneously; one where Frankie is still yours and this one –  the one where there’s scores of shared memories, pain and change between the last time he called you cielo.

You can’t even remember the last time he called you that.

It’s not as though you knew it was the last time after all. 

“Thanks,” you reply softly, not sure whether to acknowledge the name or not. “You’re not doing too bad yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, his cheeks fiercely colouring,  then he  stands up from the bed - your bed. “We should go get some dinner, huh, Clara?”

The early dinner serving is filled with families like your own. You take a sip of your soda and look out at the beach ahead of you. You think you can see Lia, Benny and the others in the distance, still taking full advantage of their time away from it all.

“You could have got a drink,” Frankie says suddenly and quietly. He looks down and away from you as you look over at him.

“I have a soda,” you reply, furrowing your brow.

“I saw you reading the wine list and the cocktails and - it doesn’t bother me.”

“Frankie, it’s fine.”

“I’m just saying, it won’t upset me or anything, or trigger me. I-I’m in a good place, right now.” He looks at you with his deep soulful and hopeful eyes. You believe him, even fighting against that tiny anxious voice in your mind that remembers the past year.

That doesn’t mean you feel particularly comfortable drinking around him right now though.

“I don’t want a drink tonight,” you say finally, “but thanks, Frankie, for saying that.”

He shrugs. “‘S nothing.”

“No, it’s not. It’s - I’m - we’re all really proud of you, you do know that right?”

His cheeks colour slightly. “You shouldn’t have to be,” he says finally, before turning his attention to Clara in a clear signal the conversation is over.

“I was thinking about the itinerary you sent through.”

“Okay?”

“You didn’t allow yourself much time for yourself.”

“I’m a bridesmaid, Frankie, any time I’m not with Clara, I should -”

“How many books did you bring with you?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It really isn’t.” Frankie takes a forkful of his rice. “So, how many?”

“Four.” It had been wilfully naive. A combination of the books you kept hearing Lia and other friends talking about, books you’d wanted to read for so long but had gathered dust on your bedside table, and finally one of them was a stress induced purchase at the airport bookstore for the sheer audacity of your flight being delayed.

“Four books?”

“I  probably won’t finish any of them.”

“Why not? You’re not on your own here with Clara and Lia doesn’t need you for every moment you’re not with our kid. I’m here too, sweetheart, so read your books and do it all. Spend tie with Clara, do the wedding shi-stuff, wasn’t that the whole point of this?”

“What about you?” you ask gently, “You should - you should have the same too. I know things have been tough and trust me, if anyone deserves a vacation -”

“We both do.”

“Okay.”

You both watch Clara cheerfully spooning spaghetti and then meet each other’s gaze again.

“I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“Me too.”

“I can’t imagine it’s easy. Maybe I should have got a twin room with Santi.”

“Like he would have let you block his chances with a holiday fling,” you joke.

“That’s why there’s always a bathtub option.”

“Absolutely not. Besides, this is family, right? Benny’s your family, Lia’s as good as mine. And this one,” you indicate Clara. Your daughter who has her dad’s eyes, so many of his features, and yet, so much of yourself too. She’s a blend of the best of you both, you think. “You’re both my family.”

“Same,” he says, looking up at you carefully, “That’s never changed.”

There’s a silence.

“Sweetheart, what do you want to do tomorrow?” you ask Clara, even for her babbling to break the moment.

She takes a deep breath and places her fork down on her plate. Frankie suppresses a giggle at her serious expression. “Well,” she begins.

The two of you raise your eyebrows at each other, the tension broken. The moment’s passed.

You feel muddled on this vacation. There’s something about Frankie looking at you in his vacation clothes, glowing with sobriety and adoring your daughter that makes you feel …. something. Something you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t feel about him.

Tag List

If you would like to be added to to the taglist please let me know. As a reminder this blog is 18+ - minors do not interact and I block blank/ageless blogs.

LGL tag-list: @morallyinept @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @beboldbebravethings @spishsstuff @bitchesuntitled @redcake333 @missladym1981 @kungfucapslock @dinoflower-reads @kirsteng42 @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @casssiopeia @beboldbebravethings @devotedlyshybarbarian @emilyfarias16 @sageispunk @amyispxnk @lola8888673 @maryfanson @lu62 @ilovepedro @katw474 @softstarlite

Everything Pedro tag-list: @harriedandharassed @pedrostories @hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk @pastelnap

#frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #fic: let's get lost #frankie morales x you

[diana-thyme]

The Ultimate Deity Journal Guide

Similar to my grimoire guide, this is a guide on deity journals.

What Is A Deity Journal?

A deity journal is a journal dedicated to a deity. It’s filled with information, offerings, devotional pieces, etc. If you like journaling or can’t give other physical offerings (like food, libations, etc.), it’s one of the best offerings out there.

What Do I Use For It?

Usually deity journals are physical journals and notebooks. Binders and folders work as well. I have seen deity journals online, using things like Notion or Google Docs. Those are a little harder to format, but are great if you don’t have a notebook or aren’t a fan of physical journals.

So, What Do I Put In It?

Devotional Artwork

Devotional Playlists

Pressed/Dried Flowers or Herbs

Prayers

Devotional Poems or Stories

Myths

Recipes

Stickers

Experiences or Dreams

Photos

The Basics (Name, Epithets, Domains, Family, Associations, Holidays, Symbols, Sacred Days, Sacred Animals, Etc.)

Spells/Rituals That You Want To Or Have Done With Them

Offerings And Devotional Act Ideas

Journal Prompts

Magazine/Book Cutouts

Hymns

Shopping List (Things You Want To Buy For Them)

Fabric Scraps

Letters To Them

Divination Readings With Them

Coins Or Other Currencies

How You Celebrate (Or Plan To) Holidays Or Sacred Days With Them

UPGs

Altar Plans (Drawings Or Descriptions Of Altar Ideas)

Incense, Herb, And Oil Blends

Drops Of Wax, Wine, Etc.

Seed Packets

Blessings

Charms

Charm/Spell Bags

Travel Plans (Places You Want To Go For Your Deity)

Maps That Remind You of Them

Sigils Dedicates To Them

Superstitions Related To Them

Research On Their Birth Place

Devotional Jewelry Charging Station

Affirmations Dedicated/Influenced By Them

Small Sticks Or Branches

Book Annotations

Divination Techniques Related To Them

Relationship Goals (Better Communication, More Signs, Etc.)

Their Associated Rune/Tarot Card/Etc.

Teas And Tea Blends

Folklore/Mythology Entities Related To Them

Vision Board

Goals

Diary Entries And Rants

Taglocks

Paper/Straw/Etc. Dolls

Doodles

References/Further Reading

#deities #witchcraft #baby witch #beginner witch #witch #witchy #witchblr #helpol #hellenism #norse paganism #celtic paganism #slavic paganism #kemetism #kemeticism #Kemetic #hellenic #hellenic witch #deity #deity work #deity worship #worship #devotional act #offering #devotional journal #witches #witchery #devotion #deity devotion

[sustainabilitythoughts]

Food - use or toss?

All of us have looked at a food item wondering if it is too old to eat.  Most of the time, if we are not sure, we throw the item in the trash.  Adding to the confusion are the “best by”, “sell by” and “use by” dates on food packages in the US.  I found some information to help with those decisions, allowing us to safely reduce food waste in our homes. 

According to the US Department of Agriculture, “Food poisoning bacteria does not grow in the freezer, so no matter how long a food is frozen, it is safe to eat. Foods that have been in the freezer for months may be dry, or may not taste as good, but they will be safe to eat.”  In addition, “most shelf-stable foods are safe indefinitely. In fact, canned goods will last for years, as long as the can itself is in good condition (no rust, dents, or swelling). Packaged foods (cereal, pasta, cookies) will be safe past the ‘best by’ date, although they may eventually become stale or develop an off flavor. You’ll know when you open the package if the food has lost quality. Many dates on foods refer to quality, not safety. See FSIS’ Shelf-Stable Food Safety fact sheet for more information.”  The US Department of Agriculture is collaborating with the Food Marketing Institute and Cornell University to update the online Foodkeeper storage guide, which contains storage information on a wide variety of foods. 

The website https://www.eatortoss.com/ provides information on many unusual food safety questions, in addition to more general guidance.  For example, the website discusses what to do if one strawberry in a container is moldy or if your celery is floppy.  The website also includes “use it up” recipes to help clean out the refrigerator or pantry.   

#sustainability #environment #food waste

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this. 

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart. 

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will. 

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really. 

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.  

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

 You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north. 

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap. 

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water. 

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to… 

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night. 

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet? 

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived. 

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine. 

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady. 

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?” 

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.” 

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’. 

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor. 

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door… 

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning. 

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night. 

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia. 

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror. 

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one. 

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this. 

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner. 

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile. 

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?” 

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you. 

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop. 

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring. 

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music. 

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot. 

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter. 

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude. 

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason. 

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease. 

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking, 

“Is that mine?” 

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate. 

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris. 

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen. 

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.” 

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache? 

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

taglist: @emma77645 @ashlynnkennedy @luna-munson83 @micheledawn1975 @gaysludge @hazydespair @ebaylee422 @thebrookemunson @a-time-for-wolvess @lightmelikeamatch @live-love-be-unique @daleyeahson @bexreadstoomuch @devilinthepalemoonlite @screaming-blue-bagel @mcueveryday @ethereal27cereal @vintagehellfire @razzeith @josephquinncore

@h-ness1944 - not taggable

#blueywrites #new skin #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x plus size reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader fluff #linecook!eddie #stranger things fanfiction #st fanfic

[whimsymanaged]

1 Sad Fic and 10 Happy Ones

My latest fic, a new WIP called A Burst of Daylight, has Henry really going through it. (Please mind the tags, which include past-SA and past violence, both of which are not inflicted by any of the characters from RWRB.) You can read the first chapter here.

To heal your heart after reading the first chapter, I’ve compiled 10 of my favorite happy RWRB fics. My first rec list! Fic descriptions written by yours truly.

1. in bloom by stutteringpeach | G

About: It’s V Day. Henry’s a florist. Alex asks for a last minute bouquet for SOMEONE. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Very mysterious.

2. An Amateur’s Guide to Piping That Cream and Beating That Meat by @firenati0n | T

About: Henry is stressed trying to make something for his pal Alex's Thanksgiving dinner. Luckily, he finds a hot dude on TikTok who teaches how to make various recipes. TikTok user whimsy makes an appearance. She’s very famous.

3. you’ve ruined my life (by not being mine) by coffeecatsme | T

About: Alex is drunk and thinks he's sneaky. (He's not.)

4. Shoot Your Shot by @roseharpermaxwell | M

About: Alex goes on a talk show and confesses that his first celebrity crush was Prince Henry. He’s out there manifesting hard.

5. Confidential Memorandum by sherrivalli | T

About: Alex is Henry’s assistant. His biggest task is constantly fielding calls from Henry’s adorable child. Hard life.

6. Cursed is a State of Mind by ifyoustay and LolaLand | E

About: Alex drinks coffee in various cursed states. Very educational and inspirational.

7. Risotto + Melanzane + Dolce (a love story) by villageidiot | M

About: Alex is a terrible server. You will laugh your butt off reading this.

8. Dil(Do) It Yourself by @happiness-of-the-pursuit | E

About: Alex and Nora go to a workshop to make dildos. Henry helps.

9. Feel your hands in my hair and you whisper my name by @kiwiana-writes | E

About: Alex’s pick-up lines could use some work. The one he uses on Henry is, well, direct, if nothing else.

10. 5 Times Alex Made a Disney Movie Reference + 1 Time Henry Did by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf | T

About: Alex watches too many Disney movies and Henry pays the price.

#firstprince #rwrb fanfic #red white and royal blue #RWRB rec list #happy fics #and one sad one

[bonefall]

Hey, what herbs do cats generally use for cooking?

They use a lot more mushrooms than plants in cooking, but I refer to all non-meat objects uses for culinary purposes as a spice in Clanmew.

Spices are;

Coltsfoot Salt (burned coltsfoot root, used in many traditional ThunderClan recipes)

Ocean Salt (Fire Era onward)

Flax Oil (ShadowClan and WindClan)

Pellitory (ShadowClan)

Juniper (ShadowClan)

Rosemary (RiverClan, ShadowClan)

Valerian (All)

Most edible fruits except damsons and crabapples (ThunderClan)

Damsons (ShadowClan)

Grain Flour (WindClan)

Honey (ThunderClan)

Maple Sap (ThunderClan)

Heather Honey (WindClan)

I haven't yet done enough research to make the full mushroom guide, but just from memory, young puffball and chicken-of-the-woods is going to be on that list.

#Warrior bites

[bytheviolight]

Just thoughts of Bakugou being arguably the most devoted of all the BNHA boys come to me as I lay here in bed. I subscribe to the what others say about him being the type picking out a ring on the second date.

Bakugou who entertains little daydreams of you and him doing domestic tasks. Then cursing at himself that he is getting caught up in fantasies while he should be focusing on something else. But he won’t stop daydreaming.

Bakugou who frequently finds himself thinking of new recipes to make for you. He adores the little routine of him being the chef and you being taste-tester. Sometimes he will let you chop some vegetables but chides you for not doing them efficiently. But it gives him an excuse to teach you by guiding you from behind. As you sinks your back into his warmth. His ears flaring pink.

Bakugou who embodies the “that’s my wife/husband” energy before you guys are even married. He frequently refers to you as his betrothed to literally anyone who asks about you. Or not even when they ask about you. But god forbid you actually ask him about it. He will only tsk at you and say “where the hell did you hear that, dumbass?”

#Bakugou being domestic and devoted 🥰🥰 #bakugou x female reader #Bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #bakugou x reader #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #bnha thoughts #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou #bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki x reader

[caitlynskitten]

mmmmmmmmm

Anyway, here I go again lol

Wednesday isn't soft, never was, and never dreamed herself to be so. Nobody could change that, many tried to and they all met either a swift end or were forced to change their identity, permanently. Wednesday is a razor-sharp edge and the rest of the world is just a whetstone that she is constantly sharpened against.

Well, at least she was. That knife's blade has slowly been dulled by a pair nobody could've imagined would be capable of such an impossible feat. A blonde, hyperenergetic werewolf and dark-haired, cocky-as-hell vampire. Ugh, there are undoubtedly some jealous perverts who would just love to take her place, Wednesday would happily rip them apart herself.

Somehow, some way, Enid and Yoko had managed to melt away those well-built walls around Wednesday's heart. Perhaps their personalities just mixed together into a recipe of acid, perfect for the task of exposing the kind girl inside, desperate for love and affection and desperate to show it to those she cares for. Either way, after giving herself to the two women, both body and heart, Wednesday wasn't quite the same anymore.

Typically, in public, nothing really appeared to change. At least, not to anyone who didn't know her well, her image of the terrifying Addams girl still well intact to the general school populous. But to her friends and family? Well, they could see the change, some of it. But only the wolf and vampire saw her, truly saw Wednesday. Whenever it was just the three of them, Wednesday held nothing back. She was touchy, needy, and even whiny when she was especially desperate for them, usually on harder days when the rest of the world got on her nerves.

Like today, for example. A group of werewolves thought it would be real funny to mess with her in small ways, all in build-up to some big show to humiliate the raven in front of the school. Thankfully, they never got the chance as Bianca, Nevermore's Queen B herself, caught wind of it and shut them down, hard. However, enough damage was done to Wednesday's social battery and she desperately needed her partners to bring her back to herself.

Returning to her dorm room, Wednesday sees the two waiting for her on her bed. Yoko and Enid quickly stand up just in time to catch the tiny seer in their shared embrace and less than a second later, they can feel their shirts dampen with tears as the body in their arms shakes subtly, tiny sobs wracking through her as the day's exhaustion catches up to her.

"Oh Wends, it's okay. They're not gonna bother you anymore, little raven. We've got you, Mommy and Daddy have you." Enid strokes Wednesday's hair softly, gently scratching her scalp the way she knows she loves. Meanwhile, Yoko guides them all slowly onto the bed and places Wednesday between her and Enid. Once they're all lying down, the vampire and wolf take their time to undress the raven and themselves, giving Wednesday the skin contact she desperately craves at the end of every day.

The rest of the afternoon and long into the night is spent like that, with Enid and Yoko holding Wednesday tight and whispering soft praises, telling her how much they love her and how proud they are of her until Wednesday finally slips softly into sleep.

End. <3

Oops, this was really long, didn't mean for that to happen... Anyway, I hope this is good fluff for my new favorite OT3. Also, I couldn't help myself, I had to slip in a little Mommy and Daddy in there, but it's not sexual in this context, just something to help Wednesday relax. Reminds her that she's safe, if Enid and Yoko ever refer to themselves that way, it means they're alone and Wednesday can let go.

Oh my god. Now this is the fluffiest fluff I’ve read of the three and I am LIVING for it 😭😭😭😭 Enid and Yoko comforting and reassuring their cute Raven after hard days is just *chefs kiss* Ugh it’s so cute it’s so adorable it’s so fluffy I love them together. I 1000% agree that these two are the reason Wednesday finally feels love and happiness and found two people she genuinely love and can be herself.

ALSO THE

“We’ve got you, Mommy and Daddy’s got you” OH MY GOD MY FUCKING HEART

MY FUCKING HEART

Sorry I just keep rereading that segment where the two of them comfort Wednesday and praise her for being such a good girl and a good girlfriend. And how much they love her. Ugh and the two of them sandwiching her as they all fall asleep together. Fuck I love these three they’re so cute.

Can’t stop thinking about these two praising their beautiful short girlfriend🥺🥺🥺

#asks #VampRavenWolf #rachelsfav queer #wednesday #wednesday addams #wenclair #enid sinclair #the addams family #yoko tanaka #yoko and wednesday #wednesday and yoko #wednesday netlfix #wednesday headcanons