#tortillas grandes

[tortillasrosario]

Embracing Size and Tradition: The Rise of Tortillas Grandes in Phoenix

Phoenix, the sprawling capital of Arizona, is a culinary paradise celebrating a rich tapestry of flavors. The city is a vibrant showcase of gastronomic diversity, but one tradition stands tall — the love for tortillas. In recent times, the city has witnessed an exciting trend: the growing popularity of tortillas grandes. Read More - https://tortillasrosario.blogspot.com/2023/06/embracing-size-and-tradition-the-rise-of-tortillas-grandes-in-phoenix.html

#home made tortillas phoenix #tortillas grandes #tortillas grandes Phoenix #White Flour Tortillas phoenix #Whole Wheat Tortillas

[hockeytown-gifs]

Tortilla Challenge! 3  Dogg -  Detroit Red Wings  -  October  2022

#detroit red wings #darren mccarty #grand rapids griffins #hockey #hockeytown #brad thompson #dogg #october 2022 #tortilla challenge #lolz #red wings #smiles #wings 2022 #the grind line

[the-californicationist]

Excerpt from Gunslinger - "Appaloosa"

OMG!! I commissioned this artwork from the incredible @captain-natey who RETURNED TO ME WITH THIS MASTERPIECE!!!! I just wanted to plug their work (their commissions are OPEN! visit their website here!!) and I wanted to post the chapter excerpt from "Gunslinger" (Price/Reader) that it belongs to. Hope you enjoy! Please go show Nate some love! Thanks for reading. TW: reference to past domestic abuse, Reader has call sign and speaks Spanish

Price sat beside you and pulled your chair closer to his, looping an arm around the back of it,

“Look, love, you don’t have to do anything you don’t -”

“Capitán! Quit whispering your sugary words into her ear. This is the woman who survived Miguel ‘El Matador’ Moreno for diez pinche años. She may look like a little lady, but she’s done nastier work than all four of you perritos combined. She is the reason why the infamous Jefe Luis Villagomez doesn’t travel north of the Rio Grande. Charon doesn’t ferry the living very often, amigos. She only takes the dead. Porfa,” Alejandro waved a hand in the air dismissively, unamused by Price’s coddling tones. 

Ale may have been embellishing a bit, but he wasn’t wrong. You didn’t need your hand to be held.

“I can’t leave the animals,” you said, checking to see how far these men had thought this plan through. 

“Laswell called Tony, and he’ll be here Wednesday,” Gaz told you. 

Tony had watched the ranch for you once before. He was a sharp-witted veteran that had run his own ranch for decades, so you felt good about leaving the farm to him. Tony could take care of himself. He did tend to spoil the goats, but there were worse things. 

“How long?” Your question hung in the air like a balloon losing its air, floating, surrounded by silence. 

Vargas and Price shared a look. Price repositioned himself in his chair, not thrilled about having to answer you,

“Not sure, love. Is that alright?” 

It was a test. What were you willing to sacrifice for this man and his makeshift band of brothers? Your peace? You’d fought so damn hard for that peace. You’d survived a devil of a man in order to sleep warm and safe and knowing you could take care of your damn business unaided. After giving up years of your life to unrest and fear, your reward had been the reconstruction of your independence. Price was asking you for your hard-fought freedom. You weren’t ready to give that up. You weren’t ready for sleeping on floors and reloading guns. You weren’t ready to face more devil-men. 

But what else could you do? Price had you, threatening your heart. If you woke up tomorrow to his empty bed, you didn’t know if you could take that pain. You imagined that Kahlo’s Wounded Deer felt much the same; shot through the chest with nowhere to run, stuck between the cliff’s edge and your lover - your hunter - both promising suffering in different ways. No escape. 

The captain studied you like a heeler dog studied its herd, watching for even the slightest movement to strike, to react. He witnessed the fear flash in your face, and in turn, you saw the despair shadow his. It was so slight, that change in his expression, but to you, it was like he was screaming. You, too, were screaming. 

“Okay, but just for this mission. Then, I need to get back to my life,” you decided, making your limitations known, quietly but firmly. 

The relief that washed through Price’s eyes was palpable. 

Vargas served dinner in his chaotic way, family style, sharing plates. Everyone was eating with their hands, cradling the homemade tortillas like little flowers, using them to scoop up meat and sauce that dripped down their palms like nectar, spicy and sweet. 

Ghost didn’t take his food into the other room this time, feeling secure enough to flip up the mouth of his painted mask to eat. It was like seeing him naked; he was always covered up, so any skin was somehow too much. Soap crowded Ghost from his corner of the table, trying to steal more asada, laughing and joking with Ale. Gaz and Price were huddled, murmuring about something, talking with full mouths in low tones. 

It was almost too serene. There were times in life where you understood that you were in a moment you could never return to. You may have similar ones in your future, but somehow, you knew when certain wrinkles in time were singular. As you watched your guests, you knew that this was definitely one of those moments. 

Price had his arm draped across your chair, keeping you near him. You crafted a bite for him in your hand, pinching the soft tortilla until it held the perfect amount of Ale’s asada. 

You nudged Price with your free hand,

“Toma, come esto, papi.” Here, have a bite, daddy.

He turned away from Gaz and found you there, his bite of food in your hands, and his face lit up like a flame. Bending his head down to meet your hand, he grabbed your wrist in his huge fist, trapping your arm. Then, slowly, he put his mouth around the morsel, lips touching the pads of your fingers, tongue licking the sauce from them. 

Vargas watched your interaction from the other side of the table, open-mouthed. Soap smacked him on the shoulder as if to cash in a bet.

“No, animales! Not at the table!”

The men shared a lighthearted groan and laughed good-naturedly, giving you and their captain a hard time about your little display of affection. 

You smirked, feeling accomplished. Price had wanted to tell them, so you thought a dropped hint or two would be alright. To your relief, he laughed with them, chewing his food before making a comment,

“Sabe buena.” Tastes good. His voice, still badly accented, was mirthful and suggestive, dragging out another round of playful jeering. 

Then, to your surprise, the captain pulled your chair back away from the table, leaning it on its rear legs, holding it at an angle, and kissed you deeply. You let out a little cry of shock, silenced by his mouth. But, you recovered, kissing him back, wrapping one hand around his jaw and the other running through his hair. 

It was all in good fun. Normal. Just a couple flirting with each other, but for Price, you could tell it meant more. It was one thing to bare your souls to each other in front of the farm animals, or to sneak off and rediscover original sins in the quiet of your room, but it was something else to show the world that you chose him. To show his men that you were committed to their captain. That you weren’t just a rest-stop on their long journey. You got the sense that by committing to him, you were also committing to them: his family. 

The rest of the meal passed in that same warmth, filled with laughter and jokes, stories and questions about each other. Intimacy. The whole time, Price couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Your thigh, your hand, the nape of your neck - he was grabbing you like a lifeline. He shared his food, making you try his chili relleno, giving you sips of his drink when yours ran dry, doting on you. 

“Okay, time for dessert, yes?” You asked the others, picking up dirty dishes as you retreated back to the kitchen. 

You heard exasperated groaning, their bellies full and struggling, but you didn’t hear a no. Vargas followed you into the kitchen, pretending to help,

“Dios mío, necesito un cigarrillo después de verlos a ustedes.” My God, I need a cigarette after watching you two. 

“Cállate, cerdito.” Shut up, piglet. You smiled to yourself, cutting up what was left of the cheesecake, giving Price’s plate the largest piece. 

“¿Estas enamorado, morena?” Are you in love, darling? His voice was a quiet whisper. It felt like a gunshot wound in your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you said, in English, not trusting yourself to tell such a lie in your native tongue. 

Your old friend covered his mouth with his hand, eyebrows heading skyward, giving you an obvious look. He replied in English, understanding the secret you’d been trying to conceal,

“You know better, Charon. We are not men who should be loved. I hope you know what you’re doing, mija. ”

You didn’t reply out loud, but on the inside, you heard yourself say, “Me, too.”

Even though they lived in the shadows, you weren’t sold on the idea that they should be priests for their causes. Men like Price typically followed two paths. The love of a woman, if she becomes his family, could break his heart, making him forget his purpose, distracting him from his quest for justice. Or, she would light a fire in him, turning him into a dragon. You were afraid to find out which path he would choose.

You wondered if he loved you. 

You delivered the cake and poured more tequila into all the little cups that were thirsty for it. 

John was rolling a cigar in his fingers absentmindedly, and you could tell he was aching to smoke it. 

“You wanna come outside with me, love?” Price invited you, rubbing your thighs in big, sweeping strokes, making your blood rush through them, somehow knowing what you wanted. 

Everyone else was chatting, or watching Gaz play that video game of his, backseat driving, telling him where to hide and who to shoot. Which gun to use. You slipped out onto the porch with Price, avoiding any more ribbing. 

You stood against the porch railing, facing the yard, staring out at the darkness of the night, the rain finally dying out to a drizzle, casting little blue galaxies in the flooded grass, reflecting the light from a huge moon. Price stood directly behind you, pressed against your body, wrapping one hand around the railing, closing you in. He held his cigar in the other hand, smoking it in circles, trying to make the ashes burn evenly. 

“You surprised me at dinner,” he commented, obviously looking for a response. 

You feigned ignorance,

“Oh, why?”

“Feeding me by hand like that. Can’t be doing that in public. Makes me go a bit hard, love.” His voice was right next to your ear, gravelly and delightfully threatening. 

You smiled sweetly, your words coated in pretend innocence, playing with him,

“What do you mean? I just wanted you to have a bite. One little bite can’t hurt, can it, John?” 

“It’s bloody mental, the way you make me feel,” he took a long drag from his cigar and let the smoke tumble out as he spoke, leaning over you, “I’d fuck you right here, pretty girl, given half a chance.”

He took a deep breath along the side of your neck, smelling your skin beneath your hair, and when he exhaled, a moan was wrapped quietly inside it.

You pressed your ass into his crotch, finding him nearly hard. Touching his hand gently, you took his cigar and stuck it in your mouth, the wet leaves tasting like him. You curled the smoke with your tongue, locking eyes with him over your shoulder, watching him suffer deliciously,

“I dunno about ‘mental’, John. But it seems like you have an oral fixation.

You punctuated your last two words, saying them with a soft, sultry undertone. His eyes narrowed as he smiled down at you in a sinister grin,

“Do I ever.”

He stole the stick back from you and smiled even wider, teeth gleaming, his incisors seeming like fangs in his wolfy smile. 

“Think they’re watching us?” You let your eyes turn over to the window, covered with a sheer curtain, fully aware that the view outside was more visible than your view into the house. Trick of the light. 

He shrugged,

“Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Price’s cock had fully hardened now, and he thrust it up into your body ever so slightly, rubbing himself through layers of clothes, rocking his hips once and then twice like a promise of things to come. It made you feel a deep, primal lust, understanding his need without his words, your bodies engaging in an ancient art that had remained untainted by eons of time. You returned his invitation, rolling your hips back onto him, your ass pressing soundly into his pinned shaft. 

“We should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow. It’s five hours to El Ojo,” Price groaned, whispering, rutting against you mindlessly, burying his face in your hair, staining your scent with his smoke. 

You turned around to face him; he didn’t stop his idle grinding, looking tranquilized by his heady tobacco. Hypnotizing you with his casual eroticism. 

“You don’t seem sleepy,” you commented, letting your hands roam over his chest and belly, tracing his nipples beneath his smooth shirt. He shuddered at your touch, sighing deeply. 

With his cigar perched carefully between his fingers, he grabbed your jawbone, and you could feel the wet end press into your cheek. You could sense the warmth of the ash on your skin. He began to kiss you, all of the smoke and musky scents of him blended together, and his strong, masculine cologne made your head spin. His kisses were controlling and long, moving your head where he wanted it to be, sucking your lips and tongue, keeping them from exploring on their own. He was the guide for your passion, showing you all the ways he would be able to please.

He broke away, but only far enough to keep your lips from touching, his breath hot as it warmed your mouth when he spoke,

“Early. Tomorrow. We have to get up early. We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you sighed, a little dramatically, easing past his grip, removing yourself from him, untangling his vines from your bones, “if you say so, John. Buenas noches.” 

You walked inside, swaying your hips a little more than you needed to, knowing he was looking, his blue eyes burning into your curves. Just before you went through the door, you glanced over at him. In the darkness of the porch, cast in shadow, the smoldering tip of his cigar glowed in his open mouth, the light from it gleaming off of his teeth and coloring his lips and beard a fiery orange. He was grinning, like a fox in a henhouse. When he saw you looking, he made a small show of readjusting himself, pawing at his swollen rod to release it from where it was trapped, and in the dimness, you could see its threatening outline. 

You shut the door behind you, hands shaking. The other men mostly ignored you, but you caught them glancing your way, trying to sneak looks. Soap was not as sneaky as the rest, staring blankly as if he had a secret he shouldn't have.

As you wished them good night, they returned the sentiment casually, but it was then that you noticed the window. Price was still at the railing - in full, clear view, smoking. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel the flush tingle against your skin with embarrassment. 

An hour or so later, you were already asleep when Price came upstairs. His heavy footsteps pulled you from your slumber. He was pacing in his room, packing perhaps. You went to the bathroom and pulled open the door. Upon hearing you, he opened his as well.

“Hey,” you whispered, squinting from sleep. 

“Hey,” he was breathing heavily, dressed in nothing but the jeans and boots he had worn that day. 

The captain watched as your eyes feasted upon his skin, gazing longingly at his thick waist where his pants were slung low on his hips, showing off just a bit of hair from below his belt line. One of his giant hands gripped the door frame, high on the plank, stretching his chest into a sweeping display of muscle. His armpit, arms, and torso were covered in the thick, dark hair you had let your hands roam across last night during your joining, and you knew how it would feel to touch. 

Price slid his hand down the frame, making a slow scraping noise, stepping fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a click, his icy eyes never leaving yours. 

He was enormous in the small space. His body was a powerhouse of visible strength. The meat of him hung heavy on his large bones, and he seemed, in the clean white tile of the bathroom, as if he was a specimen in some sort of display. Some museum exhibit, showing off, in sterile composition, the ideal form of Man. Built to fuck, to kill, to dominate the beasts of Eden from the lamb to the lion. Top of the food chain. 

Still a little shy from realizing you’d given his team quite the show earlier on the porch, you averted your gaze, turning toward the sink. Before you could run the water, he was behind you, quick, crowding your space exactly as he had on the porch.

He positioned himself behind you and, much more luridly this time, began to kiss and lick your neck, grinding himself into you as he did so, slipping a warm hand under your loose top, finding your soft flesh waiting for his touch. You could feel the roughness of his denim jeans through your cotton shorts, and the contrast between his soft, melting kiss and the hard, unforgiving feeling of him trying to fuck you through your clothes was too much to handle. Your body was trying to reconcile the two, splitting your thoughts, making you love-drunk on his ministrations. 

Price pulled off your shirt, raking it over your head, tossing it to the floor. He laced his hand through your hair and began to tug your head back, forcing you to look at yourself, bare to him, in the mirror. There was only the nightlight, more like a small Christmas bulb attached to a plug, so the room lacked any harsh contrast. Your bodies, your faces, the walls - everything began to swirl together, all colorized in the same, peachy glow. 

You felt his hands on your breasts, and you watched him touch you in the mirror. Seeing yourself being pulled and manipulated by such a large man was gratifying. His hands massaged into your softness, leaving warm trails on your skin, the tell-tale feeling of where he had touched and where he still had left to go. The captain saw himself in the mirror for the first time, then, looking up from leaving erotic kisses on your neck and shoulders. 

He sighed, locking eyes with you in the glass. That sigh trailed off into a groan, a ghost of the one he’d given you last night in the midst of his ecstasy. 

“Fucking hell, look at you,” he said in his lowest tone.

Suddenly, he was tugging at the button of his jeans and unzipping the fly, freeing himself and stroking his cock to attention using your plump ass. Through your flimsy shorts, you could feel the burning heat that radiated from him. Reaching behind you, his hardness fell into your palm and you watched the sensation crawl its way through his expression in the reflection. He gasped, resting his head against yours, whispering - yes, yes, yes - into your ear in a hiss through clenched teeth. 

John’s hand found your pantyline and pried it away from your skin with a confident finger, traveling down into your folds, searching for the swelling bundle nestled in the crest of your slit, rubbing it in long, loose ovals.

It wasn’t feverish; it was measured. His was the hand of a practiced man. As he worked, you joined him, rolling your wrist to rub his foreskin up and down in achingly long pulls, letting his wet head graze your skin as you teased him. The thick length was drooling with precome, and you could feel its stickiness on your palm. 

It didn’t take him long to find your particular rhythm, the one you used when staring at Pinterest photos on your phone of Keanu Reeves in his John Wick era; sweaty, bloody, and great with a gun. Price’s movements felt personal, like he’d read about what you wanted in your diary somewhere, as if he was in on the secret. It brought you to the summit very quickly, and he noticed the flush in your cheeks and breasts, only then increasing his intensity. 

You tried to continue to stroke him, but as you began to come in Price’s hand, you could only hold onto his cock, grasping it like the handle in a car driving too fast, careening downhill, rushing to its inevitable crash. 

“Yeah, love, come for me. Just like that, you gorgeous fucking thing,” he watched you tumble over the edge, crumpling in the mirror, reaching for him. 

“John! Please,” you cried.

You felt the tension burst inside of you like a mortar, hot and molten, pouring out of your core and into your body in waves of climactic pleasure. No one had ever made you come that hard, that quickly. It was hard for you to stand. Price steadied you, using his talented hand to hold you to him while you remembered your legs. 

Once you regained your senses, you removed your hand from him to pull down your shorts and panties, letting them pool at the floor beneath your feet. You returned to his cock, now swollen and throbbing, and fed it into you. Your come made his entry smooth and slippery, and he filled you up, your body celebrating his return.

He returned to his slow, grinding dance on the porch, thrusting himself into you rhythmically in aching, rolling motions. It was not the slamming pugilism of two people trying to find release. This was a concerted effort for him to fuck your walls into his memory, rubbing his dick along them to sense every ridge and sweet spot, and to find the ones that made you scream. 

When you let slip a desperate moan, he would pause, reflect, and return, hitting it again and again, watching you writhe and begging for him to help you.

“You feel so good in me,” you admitted, talking to him in the looking-glass. 

His eyes were full of mismanaged control, and his grip on reality was slipping, 

“Bloody beautiful. So warm and wet for me. Goddamnit, I’m not gonna last.”

But, he did. Your beast had stamina. He returned to your clit as he thrust in and out of you, dragging his fat cock through your body, ripping two more orgasms from your lips before he surrendered. 

You watched him come, crying out darkly in his reflection. He had pulled himself from you and was painting your generous ass cheeks with his load. The tacky fluid was searingly hot, and it ran down your skin in drips. 

You smiled, bending back to kiss him,

“Messy boy,” you chided playfully, a naughty tone in your voice. 

“Wanna clean you up,” Price sighed, satisfied and spent.

Do you want 30 more chapters of these two? Read "Gunslinger" here.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #cod #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #gunslinger #captain john price smut #captain john price x reader #captain johnathan price #captain john price x female reader #captain john price x you #price cod #price mw2 #cod price

[moonmaiden1996]

D is for -I know your dirty little secret!

Dirty Secret- I refuse to apologies for this! I DARE you to tell me you wouldn’t :P

Very smutty 18+

As always your comments feed my writing.

Dedicated to @layla2-49​ @nushy​ @wandas-soulmate​ @dilf-of-the-endless​

Morpheus had many secrets. Too many to count. But his deepest darkest secret was wanting to take you in front of an audience. To display you in front of his realm, his friends and enemies and let them watch as he pulls you apart with his mouth, fingers, and cock. Safe in the knowledge that no one else could do that to you.

The day his dear sibling made you was his biggest mistake. The devotion you created fueled him.

He had seen eyes gawping at you, following you with Desire. He knew several dreamt of you sharing their bed. Dreams that he dissolved and set waking nightmares in their place. He might have sentenced them to endless sleep or eternal wake, but he could not blame them. You were beautiful.

Often he would find himself plotting exactly how he would display you. He would present you naked on an altar in the middle of a grand stone stadium nestled prettily on red silk—thousand of seats bearing down at you both.

First, he would let them watch you on top, grinding down on him like the little wanton you were, begging as you rubbed your core against the smooth skin of his thigh. You were a needy little thing. He might even let them watch as your body judders and tits bounce as you cum in a sticky mess over his thigh.

He would make them watch you lick that mess up as your tongue traces his hardness. Only he would ever know the feeling of that sinful tongue.

Then he would let them see how one worships a queen with his fingers alone. They don't get to watch you take his mouth that something just for the two of you.

The only thing he cannot decide is how to claim you. Whether he slams into you as you cradle him between your legs, a place reserved only for him to let them see how much you are made only for him. Or whether he wants your face buried in a pillow, arse up in their glistening pussy on display for the Dreaming to watch as he thrusts in and out. The honour of hearing your delicious screams rip from your throat, muffled by the pillow. Hips thrusting back as you neared your peak.

Your screams get increasingly frantic, hands twisting into the sheets as you try to anchor yourself down. The crowd would be on the edge of their seat as you near your climax, body shaking with tension curling up inside you.

With a single wave of his hand, he would cast every person in the dreaming away as he leaves you tittering on edge, save for one person.

Desire. Or the fool that had delivered such an exquisite creation to him. They had made you too perfect in their attempt to destroy him, and their plan was ruined.

Morpheus would let them have the seat on honour directly in front of the bed. Watching. Envying Morpheus as he teases you, dragging you along the edge of your orgasm but never sending you over. You made the gorgeous needy moans as you teetered on the edge of release, and Morpheus wanted Desire to see what he could not have.

Desire might have made your paths cross, but they would always regret it. Especially as they watched the perfect woman, the one they gave away, shudder around Morpheus as you sank into oblivion and milked him through your orgasm. Morpheus might even make them watch as he unrelenting pumps into you again as your weakly pledge your love as he spills into you again and again till your core wept with his thick essence.

Before casting  Desire from the dreaming, leaving Morpheus to tend to his woman.

But Morpheus was a possessive man; for now, it was just a dark desire that festered just beneath the surface.

  @arim0895 @immaturedino @minetticatinwonderland @missusnora @nushy  @blossomedfloweroflove @bluebear142077 @ladychibi @sinisterandfun @kuchokitty @layla2-49 @itsbqueenthings @hagofyourdreams @sugarstone1999 @44capybara @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @loverofallgood @dilf-of-the-endless @kiki13522 @weirddominatrixpop @thegreatestsandwich

#darkmorpheus #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus x y/n #Morpheus #dream of the endless #dreams x reader #smutxdreams #king of dreams #the sandman #netflix sandman #sandman

[zzoomacroom]

Ooohhh, new getting to know you game!

Tagged by @4typercent and @tj-dragonblade, thanks babes! 💗💗💗

Who was your first fictional crush?

Disney's Aladdin lmao. I remember watching it with my cousin and both of us being like 😍

What's the first colour you think of when I tell you to think of a colour?

Oh fuck uhhhhhhhh orange. No wait, blue!

Which fanfiction emotionally scarred you and still makes you shudder to this day?

I'd rather not say because it's from my current fandom and it's actually really good (the part I read anyway), but I had to stop reading because it squicked me out badly and triggered some old trauma. But that's on me for not taking the tags seriously enough

I'm coming to your house for dinner, non-negotiable, what are you making me?

Umm uhhhh I don't know, what do you like? This is a lot of pressure 😭 how about some pasta? With like a bunch of veggies and pesto sauce? I can make some pretty good soups? Or I could make carnitas in the crock pot and we can have tacos (don't worry, I get the good tortillas from the Mexican grocery store, none of that Mission bullshit)

Do you prefer lions or kangaroos?

Kangaroos, they're like real life Pokémon

Which fictional villain do you brush past the glaringly obvious issues for because you really like them?

Oh gosh I'm drawing a blank...I kind of agree with @tj-dragonblade about Erik from Phantom of the Opera. Only because I was like 15 when I saw it and thought "I want a dark, mysterious man with a beautiful voice to be obsessed with me 🥺"

Oh, and Jareth from Labyrinth. I mean, come on, it's Bowie. Hmm, I may have a type...

What would accompany your picture in the Burn Book in Mean Girls?

Fat, annoying nerd with a mustache

How many days would you last in the universe of your favourite fandom?

I'd probably be fine, I tend to stay out of trouble and I'm not important enough to get the attention of any villains (hopefully)

Have you heard of Mischief Theatre?

No, but I just googled it and it sounds like fun

Do you feel sorry for Medusa?

I guess? Idk, if anything I envy her--snake hair and the ability to turn people to stone? Sounds awesome, sign me up. Yeah, it's probably obvious that I don't know much about Greek mythology

Which song makes you think of your OTP?

"In My Life" by the Beatles is sooooo dreamling coded, I might just work it into one of my fics. Also "Shelter Song" by Temples. But I can manage to make nearly any song about my blorbos

Which song makes you dissociate and daydream the fastest?

Pink Floyd's "Atom Heart Mother" suite. It sounds like the soundtrack to some grand, epic adventure

No pressure tags: @duckland @marvagon @kydrogendragon @tryan-a-bex @mallory-x @goofygooberton @fleabagoftheendless and anyone else who wants to join in! ✨️

#tag games

[lamardeuse]

2023 Fannish Year in Review

Man, it's been a while since I've done one of these! 11 stories and one vid is pretty good for me, especially since it's been A Year!

9-1-1

Do you promise not to tell (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 2500 words)

“Morning, Eddie,” Buck says. The grin banished, he tries for a friendly smile, not an I know how my name sounds in your mouth when you're coming smile. He thinks he does a pretty good job.

Eddie's eyes narrow. Fine, maybe it's not that good.

Where Tomorrow Shines (Buck/Eddie, M, c. 3600 words)

Buck finds Eddie - and himself - in a crowd.

A falta de pan, tortillas (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 3000 words)

He's kicking himself for not getting up sooner, because by the time he gets there at a quarter to eight, Eddie's looking frazzled. His hair is uncharacteristically messy, and he has a hunted look in his eye, and he's –

Okay, so he's beautiful. And it's not like that's news to Buck, but lately it's been hitting him like a two by four to the back of the skull at some pretty inconvenient times. Like right now.

to flow toward it (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 2400 words)

Eddie belatedly realizes that he's been standing there silently staring at Buck and shakes himself from his reverie. He opens his mouth and says, “Stay.”

Oh, Christ.

Leveling Up (Buck/Eddie, M, c. 5900 words)

When he rose to his feet, he found both Eddie and Maddie staring at him. “What?”

“You, uh,” Eddie said, his eyes looking sort of glazed over. “You just did measurements by eye. And math.”

“In your head,” Maddie said.

“Huh,” Buck said. “Yeah, that was – weird.”

We'd be so grand at the game (Buck/Eddie, E, c. 12000 words)

“How are we gonna practice dating if we can't even take the first step?”

Three hours later, when he was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, Eddie would not be able to pinpoint with any certainty what possessed him to say what he said next. All he knew was that at the time, it seemed like the perfect answer, the obvious solution.

“We practice on each other.”

And the last age should show your heart (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 6200 words)

This was the worst idea ever.

Okay, maybe not the worst. Buck’s pretty sure this couldn't compete with the idea to, say, start a war or put all your savings in crypto. But on the list of crappy ideas he'd had, this was definitely in the top three, crappiness-wise.

My accidental happily ever after (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 6700 words)

As he ducked into a bush just in time to avoid being crushed under someone's boot, Buck sent up a silent prayer that the bad, weird days ahead never got any worse than this one.

buried my hands in saffron (Buck/Eddie, E, c. 4600 words)

The thing was, Eddie should have been ecstatic.

What are we gonna tell our friends when they say ooh-la-la (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 8700 words)

“You asking me on a date, Diaz?”

Buck had been saying things like that more often over the last few weeks, poking at the edges of what they were to each other. His tone was always teasing, but there was something pointed in it this time. Eddie's heart tried to hide behind his spine as he doggedly kept his eyes on the screen in front of them. “I'm trying to educate you. Your movie knowledge is appalling.”

Here Comes the Jackpot Question In Advance (Buck/Eddie, T, c. 4300 words)

Buck is determined to start the new year right.

Our Flag Means Death

Something Just Like This (various, not rated, vid)

Basically a love letter to our big queer pirate show. Spoilers up to 208.

#my stuff #year in review #9-1-1 on abc #our flag means death

[melancolirio]

Tengo mis rachas. Oleadas de inspiración. Momentos de soledad. Instantes inmortales que suceden muy pocas veces.

" Si quieres hacer una tortilla, tienes que romper algunos huevos " Decía la voz interior de un demente en una peli.

Y es verdad! Joder si es verdad. Vivimos por esos momentos, por esos instantes que se hacen tan y tan grandes en nuestras mentes.

Recuerdos permanentes, residentes que viven dentro de tu ser. Y que te hacen ser como eres.

Crsdfox

#crsdfox #citas #frases #notas

[tengomilpalabrasparati]

El 16 de noviembre se rinde homenaje a lo mejor de la gastronomía típica de México. Se celebra el Día de la Gastronomía Mexicana, con la finalidad de destacar su importancia simbólica y cultural, siempre presente en las tradiciones y festividades de ese país.

Con la celebración de esta efeméride nacional se pretende preservar y divulgar el patrimonio cultural ancestral de la cocina mexicana.

¿Cuál es el origen del Día de la Gastronomía Mexicana?

El origen y la escogencia de la fecha del Día de la Gastronomía Mexicana se remonta al 16 de noviembre del 2010, cuando la Organización de las Naciones Unidas para la Educación, la Ciencia y la Cultura (UNESCO) declaró Patrimonio Cultural Inmaterial de la Humanidad a la Gastronomía Mexicana, en reconocimiento a la diversidad, creatividad y trayectoria del arte culinario mexicano.

La gastronomía mexicana: una verdadera joya culinaria

La gastronomía es uno de los pilares de la cultura mexicana, cuyos orígenes se remontan a conocimientos ancestrales y técnicas culinarias que se han transmitido de generación en generación, formando parte de su identidad.

Los ingredientes utilizados en los platos que se preparan en la actualidad provienen del periodo prehispánico, siendo un ejemplo de ello el maíz, los frijoles y el chile, además de la introducción de ingredientes asiáticos, africanos y europeos, tales como el café, el plátano y la hierbabuena.

Entre los condimentos empleados en la preparación de las comidas se destacan el comino, el achiote, el cilantro y el epazote.

La gastronomía mexicana trasciende fronteras, siendo ampliamente reconocida a nivel internacional. Es una combinación de olores, sabores y sensaciones únicas y deliciosas al paladar. Un ejemplo de ello son los tacos, considerados los grandes embajadores de la comida mexicana en el mundo.

Platos típicos emblemáticos de México

A continuación mencionamos los platos típicos más emblemáticos de México ¿Los has probado? Son una verdadera delicia:

Burritos: tortillas de maíz rellenas con carne, pollo, ternera o cerdo, frijoles, arroz y verduras.

Enchiladas: son unas tortillas de maíz enrolladas y cubiertas con salsa picante, elaborada con chile. Se rellenan con carne, verduras o queso.

Guacamole: salsa elaborada con aguacate y chile verde.

Huevos rancheros: huevos fritos servidos sobre tortillas de maíz. Generalmente se acompañan con una salsa elaborada con chiles, tomates, vegetales picados y frijoles refritos.

Mezcal: bebida elaborada con el corazón del agave, mediante un proceso de destilación.

Mole: salsa preparada con chiles y especias.

Pan de Muerto: es un pan dulce mexicano, aromatizado con un toque de anís y naranja.

Pozol: es una mezcla de masa fermentada de maíz, granos de cacao, agua y azúcar. Su sabor es dulce y ácido.

Pulque: bebida preparada con la fermentación de la savia del agave.

Tacos: tortillas de maíz rellenas de carne, chile, cebolla y tomate.

Tamales: se preparan con una masa de maíz o de arroz, rellena con carnes, verduras y hortalizas.

Comparte información útil e interesante sobre el Día de la Gastronomía Mexicana en las redes sociales. Utiliza el hashtag #GastronomíaMX

Riiicooooooo!!!!

#16 de noviembre se rinde homenaje a lo mejor de la gastronomía típica de México

[bookreadsniki]

˚₊‧♡ ‧₊˚ Resenha: Um encontro nada romântico da Meghan Quinn

Oi gente! Essa é a minha resenha número 1.

Muito bem vindos ao meu blog literário. Eu me chamo Niki e é um prazer conhecer você. ;)

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Sinopse ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

Como vocês dois se conheceram?

A pergunta essencial feita a todo casal. E a resposta é, geralmente, uma história melosa sobre como os dois foram atingidos na bunda pela flecha do cupido.

A história do meu primeiro encontro romântico (bom, encontro nada romântico) é levemente diferente.

Eu estava passeando por um bairro de gente rica em Beverly Hills, procurando alguém que me aceitasse como noiva, sabe, para que eu pudesse deixar a minha arqui-inimiga, que havia acabado de me demitir, com inveja.

Ele estava vindo pisando forte pelo quarteirão como um tipo de ogro lindo, resmungando sobre um acordo de negócios que deu errado e tentando salvá-lo.

E foi aí que nos esbarramos. Não houve faíscas.

Nem mesmo uma pitada de amor floresceu.

Mas, quando dei por mim, eu estava devorando chips de tortilla e guacamole grátis, enquanto ouvia esse homem contar todos os seus problemas, o que o levou à sua grande proposta

Ele queria que eu fosse a sua Vivian Ward, de Uma Linda Mulher sem a parte do comportamento obsceno.

Estamos falando sobre morar em uma mansão, ir a encontros duplos e fingir que estávamos perdidamente apaixonados e noivos. Dá para imaginar? Que audácia.

Mas as pessoas fazem coisas loucas quando estão desesperadas.

E eu estava afundada em desespero. Então, fechamos um acordo.

No entanto, meu único erro grande ENORME? Eu acidentalmente me apaixonei pelo incomparável Huxley Cane.

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Resenha ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

Onde estão as garotas apaixonadas por comédias românticas? Este livro é para aquelas que amaram o clássico dos anos 90, "Uma Linda Mulher" (suspirando forte), Julia Roberts e aquele cabelo maravilhoso. Recentemente, assisti a esse filme pela primeira vez na vida e me apaixonei. Então, encontrei este livro na minha estante e, quando li na sinopse 'Ele queria que eu fosse a sua Vivian Ward, de Uma Linda Mulher — sem a parte do comportamento obsceno', pensei: 'encontrei minha próxima leitura' e amei! Ri muito e fiquei tão obcecada que, mais uma vez (me perdoem, profes), deixei de prestar atenção nas aulas da faculdade. Mas como estudante de Publicidade, ousadamente peço: 'Huxley e Lottie, me deem um estágio, por favorzinho! Me adotem, eu sou legal!' Huxley é um workaholic que se meteu em uma enrascada e agora precisa de uma noiva grávida. E Lottie, após ser demitida pela sua melhor amiga baranga, falsa e tóxica, está metida em tantos problemas que seria quase impossível listar todos, mas, dentre os principais, precisa sair de um apartamento porque sua mãe está querendo ficar sozinha com o marido. Lottie precisa de um emprego para pagar suas dívidas estudantis, além de aluguel, água, comida, energia... (problemas da vida adulta) e ainda tem uma reunião de ex-alunos onde, adivinha quem ela vai encontrar? Sim, a baranga. Então, para causar uma invejinha básica, ela resolve que precisa de um namorado rico. E como se fosse obra do destino, ela, literalmente, tromba com um homem gato, rico e solteiro na rua, no caso, Huxley. Uma verdadeira obra do destino, uma vibe de 'as coisas acontecem porque têm que acontecer'! Chorei de rir com este livro. É muito divertido. Amei, adorei e me apaixonei!

Muito obrigada por ler até aqui.

Um beijo e até a próxima!

Link do livro: https://a.co/d/01DKnl7 (Está disponível no Kindle Unlimited)

Meu bookgram: https://www.instagram.com/bookreadsniki/

Meu booktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@bookreadsniki

Meu canal no Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@Cozy.Soundscape

#blog literário #livros #livros de romance #booktok #bookgram #resenha #indicaçãodelivros #aa

[unidentifiable-body]

ITAAU VINES LMAOOO @satyrsystem

Stan *walking by a sewergrate with the rest of the gang*: And they were roommates....

Penny *listening in*: ....oh my god they were ROOMATES?!

-

Georgie: wOAH- *drops chip bag* ...Hurricane Katrina? More like hurricane torTILLA!!

Richie: .....Can you die-

-

*Penny doing cool disco soundtrack*

Richie: IS THERE ANYTHING BETTER THAN PUSSY?!

Eddie *shoving him away*: YES, A REALLY GOOD BOOK!!!

-

Bev *talking to Penny*: Do you ever like wake up or like do- uh- like- do something and you're just like.....what the- he- FUCK is going on?!-

-

*Losers gang and Penny is in a car, don't ask why they just are.*

Ben: Road work ahead? Uh, yeah, I sure hope it does? :( *genuinely sad for the road*

-

Ben: When there's too much drama at school, all you gotta do issss walk awAaAaAaAaAyyy~

Eddie: Ben, Our fucking cousiNS (Bowers gang) JUST THREW US INTO THE CREEK-

-

Henry: You can't fucking sit with us. *is being calmer cause Penny is working with him on anger management*

Eddie: ACTUALLY, Bowers, I can't sit ANYWHERE. I have 🎵~hemorrhoids~🎵 *He does not.*

-

Maturin: 🎵🎶Let me hope out the 🎶🎶🎶 porche I wanna hit that~🎶🎵

Penny: Shut the 🎶 up.

-

*Richie does some lame bike trick*

Ben: !!! thAT WAS LEGITNESS?!?

Richie: YEAH it was!!!!

*Penny cheering on the side like a soccer mom*

-

*Richie throws a frisbee into the highway and it flies away*

Stan: WHAT THE FUCK RICHIE?!-

-

*Bev, to everyone*: Hey, guys I'm a lesbian.

Richie: ??....I thought you were american???.....

-

Richie: Dad LOOK it's the good kush!!!!!

Penny *extremely fucking done*: this is the sewers how good can it be.

-

Richie *to Eddie, strumming a guitar from Penny's giant ass toy pile*: I love you BITCH

Eddie: Oh my god.

Richie: I'm gonna NEVER stop loving you...BITCH.

-

*Richie hands Mike a birthday gift that is some goofy shit.*

Mike: So your just gonna bring me a birthday gift on my birthday on my birthday party on my birthday with a birthday gift?.

Richie:....Happy birthday?.

*FIGHT ENSUES*

-

*everyone is having a grand time in the sewers

Bev: Hey- cut the music. Somebody left an ice cube on the ground, it melted and now my SOCK is wet. WHO THE FUCK WANTS TO DIE????

Richie:. *<he did it.*

-

Georgie: look at all those chickens :3 *points at all the dead bodies floating*

Bill: ???.....

#unidentifiable ushers~☆ #it adoption au #FOR THE SILLIES AND THE GOOFS♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ #I LOOOVE THEM♡♡♡

[byaguscortes]

La última vez que fui a comprar marihuana, Pedro ya no estaba. Pedro era un enorme mastín, viejísimo. Apenas podía caminar. Pero aun así, se levantaba para recibir al invitado. Era un perro guardián: defendía la casa con su afecto. En cuanto el extraño se acercaba, Pedro caminaba un poco patizambo y con enorme dificultad hasta él y le lamía los zapatos, el pantalón, las manos. Se rozaba con él y expresaba una alegría tan pura que el visitante quedaba rendido y ya daba por buena la visita.

La casa estaba a las afueras de la ciudad, en el campo, rodeada de tierras con cultivos: naranjas, tomates, berenjenas, patatas... lo que tocase en esa época del año. De un único piso, era una casa de agricultor, reformada al cabo de los años. Con un generoso portal, típico de la zona, donde, desde hacía milenios, las familias salían, avanzada la tarde a descansar y contar historias.

Nunca he sabido cómo preguntar por esas cosas: sustancias ilegales. Mi acceso a las drogas siempre ha estado vedado por mi falta de habilidades sociales. Es normal que aprovechase cualquier oportunidad para recoger un contacto. En este caso fue a través de un amigo que merecía mi confianza. El caso es que me dijeron que vendía marihuana, un conocido común que era entendido también le compraba. Pues fui. Le contacté por wasap y le pregunté por sus tomates, estaba interesado. Me dijo que me acercara y me mandó la ubicación.

Me recibió Pedro y enseguida salió su dueño a saludarme. Un tipo delgado pero fibroso. Simpatizamos de inmediato. Era el único habitante de la casa. Completamente desordenada y caótica era, claramente, la casa de un hombre solo. Lo supe al instante porque era como la mía. Me atemorizaba en él un fondo de oscuridad o de locura que no acertaba a concretar. Sin embargo, era amable y tranquilo. Me comentó sus problemas con los frutales, la miseria en que se había convertido cultivar naranjas, y sus esfuerzos en conseguir una hortaliza o verduras con el mínimo de química.

Cuando le expliqué lo que buscaba se rió: había tomado de forma literal mi pregunta por los tomates. No creía que necesitásemos ese tipo de subterfugios para comunicarnos. Podía ser directo si quería.

Así pues, sacó dos tarros grandes llenos de cogollos y me hizo varias preguntas en las que destaqué por mi ignorancia del tema. Le dejé guiarme. Cada tarro era de una variedad diferente: uno de la variedad Somango, el otro de la Cheese. Me explicó los efectos de cada una de ellas y lo que podía esperar de consumir una u otra cepa. Desprendían un olor magnífico. No supe por cuál decidir. Tampoco había necesidad: me llevé un poco de ambos. Una vez resuelta la compra, me invitó a un café y charlamos un poco de todo durante un rato. Había estudiado una ingeniería y había elegido la vida de agricultor, no sé si por rebeldía o necesidad, probablemente lo primero, si tenía que fiarme de mi instinto.

Cuando estaba en la puerta me acordé de los tomates y le pedí un kilo. Lamentablemente ya no tenía, pero sí alcachofas. Me presentó unos ejemplares espectaculares. Me llevé un par de bolsas y decidí que esa noche me haría una tortilla con ellas. Los cogollos se borraron de mi horizonte ante esta nueva delicia.

Mientras me marchaba, pensé que había descubierto a un amigo y eso bastó para saber que volvería, más que el interés por la hierba.

Volví en otra ocasión, un domingo en el que me sentía tan solo que se me ocurrió que podía comprar un rato de compañía adquiriendo unos cogollos de marihuana. Suena feo, pero eso es lo que pensé. Me subí al coche y conduje cuarenta minutos hasta el lugar.

Me recibió, como la vez anterior, Pedro. Su alegría estaba entorpecida por sus esfuerzos por moverse. Resbalaba y se detenía a respirar porque perdía el resuello cada poco... Las patas, muy delgadas, apenas sostenían el peso de su corpachón. Se tumbaba entonces, muy digno y señorial, a recuperar el aliento con un único detalle de informalidad en su porte: la lengua colgándole, saltarina, a un lado del morro.

Como la vez anterior, Alfredo y yo nos sentamos en el salón y él trajo los dos botes, ya enormemente mermados. Le pedí la misma cantidad que la última vez.

Me llamó la atención la rapidez con la que descendía su reserva y me interesé por cuándo se repondría. Me confesó con orgullo que tenía una planta especialmente vigorosa: ya alcanzaba los tres metros y eso que no estaba plenamente desarrollada. La planta de hecho era enorme, con un tronco grueso que auguraba un tamaño aún más gigantesco. Me invitó a verla. Atravesamos la casa y llegamos a un patio en la parte de atrás donde estaban sus plantas. A un lado había un corral con media docena de gallinas, al otro una habitación donde guardaba sus aperos. Distribuidas a lo largo del patio, docenas de plantas de María que daban al lugar una impresión de frescura y sobreabundancia, como de un jardín mágico. No era para menos.

Yo caminaba por entre ellas sintiendo la potencia de su savia. Mostraban un verdor casi hiriente al sol de la tarde. Era un patio pequeño pero avanzando entre las plantas me pareció que el espacio se desplegaba y sentí como si estuviese rodeado de un paisaje antediluviano de dimensiones gigantescas. Finalmente llegamos hasta ella. Su aspecto justificaba la admiración con la que Alfredo hablaba de ella. A todas luces exudaba vida. Era como una especie de reina que superaba cualquier aspecto que señalases en el resto de plantas que la rodeaban. Sus ramas explotaban en todas direcciones y amenazaban con ocupar todo el espacio libre a su disposición.

La miramos en silencio un rato. Luego Alfredo se acordó que tenía que regar no sé qué cultivo y salimos de la casa para despedirnos. Soñé esa noche con un jardín similar por el que me movía con prisa buscando algo.

Cuando me acerqué esta vez, al cabo de dos o tres meses desde mi última visita, la ausencia del enorme perrazo era notoria. Nadie salió a saludarme. Esperé unos segundos de pie frente a la puerta, sin llamar al timbre, con la esperanza de verlo aparecer. Quise pensar que estaba en alguna otra parte de la casa. No verlo me irritó y entristeció de una forma que no entendí.

Me recibió Alfredo, algo inquieto. Sacó el tarro de cristal, pesó un poco y lo apartó para entregármelo, como hacía siempre. Me explicó que ya no le quedaba apenas nada de la cosecha de ese año.

Me interesé por el ejemplar gigante. Se puso serio. Me dijo con brusquedad que la había arrancado. El tono de voz me resultó inapropiado, y me quedé mirándole tratando de entender ese arranque. Me fijé entonces que tenía ojeras y las mejillas algo hundidas. Le pregunté con calma si ocurría algo y se levantó y me guió hasta su patio como la última vez.

Me contó que la enorme planta había comenzado a asomar por encima del muro del patio. Y empezó a preocuparle. Cuando un helicóptero pasaba cerca, pensaba en la policía, la guardia civil o quién sabe qué otra fuerza policial. Su ansiedad creció en exceso y decidió dejar de fumar unos días, antes de mover el asunto y tomar una decisión. Pero la sobriedad no ayudó y siguió dándole vueltas al tema. Finalmente, en una tarde frenética se deshizo de la magnífica planta y de algunas otras más hasta que su temor disminuyó a un nivel aceptable. Y este era el resultado. Lo que yo veía, ahora en su patio, era una modesta colección de cuatro escasas plantas que no podían generar el interés de la policía ni de nadie. Volvimos al salón en silencio.

Entonces le pregunté por su mascota. Se emocionó y se quedó callado un tiempo que me pareció muy largo. Al parecer durante las últimas semanas la vida del animal era casi imposible. Ya no podía moverse y Alfredo debía trasladarlo en una carretilla para dejarlo en un rincón soleado o devolverlo a su camita. En un momento dado, el muchacho llegó a esa extraña situación en donde nos convertimos en juez de la vida de otro ser. Hemos de valorar si merece la pena: ¿Es su vida solo dolor? ¿Tiene alguna posibilidad de mejora? ¿O solo puede ir a peor? Siempre sentiremos que no tenemos herramientas suficientes para decidir. Y a pesar de hacerlo correctamente, una parte de nosotros guarda una esperanza desquiciada y se ensaña despertando la duda de si hicimos bien o nos apresuramos.

Le llevó al veterinario para que le durmiesen. Esa es la expresión que los dueños de mascotas utilizan cuando deciden que estas no pueden seguir viviendo. No pudo enterrarlo en su finca, como hubiese querido, pues le devolvieron a Pedro en forma de ceniza. Un amanecer las esparció por la zona de las alcachofas y ahí acabó todo.

#cuentosdelaabuelarobot #relatos #cosas que escribo #en español #escritores en tumblr #escritos

[hectorthehappyhippo]

#polls #hyperspecific poll #tumblr polls

[galacticnova3]

how do you manage to write such a powerful message of solidarity and also be the person who sexualized tortillas

1. When the only thing you have to offer someone in need is kind words of support, give them as many as you can. Maybe it won’t do much in the grand scheme of things, but at the very least it might be the difference between someone out there feeling alone and someone out there feeling heard. Victory is never achieved in the absence of hope, and there are few things more hostile to hope than being in a fight for survival that nobody else seems to know or care about.

2. well you see,

IRU’S TORTILLA SHOOTER WASNT MY DAMN FAULT THAT WAS SOMETHING AN ANON SENT ME UNPROMPTED AND IT ALL WENT DOWNHILL FROM THERE

#asks #rambling

[lassandwichitas]

carnes en su jugo

Las carnes en su jugo son un delicioso invento y esta es su historia. Doña Carmen era una mujer que realizaba carne para su familia en su fogón al aire libre originalmente solo tenía carne, frijoles y cilantro aunque ahora las receta a cambiado mucho sigue siendo preparada con ese gran amor con el que la preparaba doña Carmen hace tantos años.

ingredientes:

1 kilo de carne de res en cubos

500 gramos de frijoles de la olla

4 tiras de tocino, cortadas en cubos

1 cebolla grande, picada

2 dientes de ajo, picados finamente

4 chiles serranos, sin semillas y picados finamente

1 taza de cilantro fresco, picado

1 taza de jugo de limón

1 taza de agua

Aceite de oliva

Sal y pimienta al gusto.

Modo de preparacion:

En una olla grande, calienta un poco de aceite de oliva a fuego medio-alto. Agrega la cebolla y cocina hasta que esté transparente.

Agrega el ajo y los chiles serranos y cocina durante 1-2 minutos más.

Agrega la carne en cubos y cocina hasta que esté dorada por todos lados.

Agrega los frijoles, el tocino y el agua. Reduce el fuego a medio-bajo y deja cocinar durante 30-40 minutos.

Agrega el cilantro y el jugo de limón y cocina durante 5-10 minutos más.

Sazonar con sal y pimienta al gusto.

Sirve caliente con tortillas y salsa de tomate

#comida casera #delisiosasrecetas #mexico

[its-time-to-write]

Ten Songs and Ten People

rules: put your music on shuffle and list the first ten songs that come up, then tag ten other people.

Thanks as always to my tumblr bestie @whimsical-roasting🥺 Love you babe, every time we chat I’m more and more convinced that we’re the same person✌️😗

affection by BETWEEN FRIENDS

2. Sunflower, Vol. 6 by Harry Styles

3. Darling by Halsey

4. Glory and Gore by Lorde

5. Your Mind is Not Your Friend by the National

6. successful by Ariana Grande

7. happiness by Taylor Swift

8. Space Cowboy by Kacey Musgraves

9. A World Alone by Lorde

10. invisible string by Taylor Swift

I’m honestly shocked there isn’t more T. Swift. But tbh, she’s not my absolute fave artist, that’s Lorde, so 🤷‍♀️

I don’t have ten people to tag and if you’ve already done this I’m sorry! @qquell, @tortilla-maria1, @criminalyetminimal, @greenies-green, @benedictscanvas, @yokolesbianism, @whenyourmindleavesyoubehind

[gilly-laughs]

I stopped getting a soda on my break at work. In the grand scheme of everything, the five dollars a week I save is nothing but it lets me feel less guilty about buying cheese.

In other news, I've found a flatbread recipe that is simple and easy to cook. It starts with making a batter of about equal parts flour and water, oil (1 tablespoon per 4 cups batter) and a pinch of salt. Then you pour a dab into your pan on medium heat, spread it out thin, and flip and cook until both sides are done.

The texture is chewier than tortillas; not bad just different. It took longer to cook each flatbread (probably due to the higher moisture content and lower heat) but was easier than kneading dough and rolling out tortillas.

It's been three weeks since I bought bread. I've made tortillas several times but it is a bit of work (in preparation and cleaning) that is honestly not worth the $1.30 in savings. These flatbreads might be low effort enough to make the inconvenience worth the savings though.

#gillian's blog