#(egg yolk in the crust and then she never uses the white. which i do not agree with at all

[milkweedman]

Fig and apple pie with pecan-cardamom crust. The figs and the apples were both foraged, which is always fun. Smells super good !

It was supposed to be in a pie tin, but I had 3/4 of a pound of figs rather than the half pound the recipe called for. And then needing to scale the recipe complicated the already confusing situation of reading while dyslexic. So I largely gave up on reading, and this is more inspired by the recipe than anything else, but here it is nonetheless: Fig, Apple, and Walnut Tarts. Anyway, it ended up too big to fit in a pie tin, hence the cobbler dish.

#havent had any due to classic long covid 'food has an almost imperceptible amount flavor if any at all' #but i can currently smell things so id rather juat smell it tbh #my roommates were at least eating it so it seems to be edible :D #cooking #baking #like there are a million competing reasons i dont and cant follow recipes (or patterns or any other written/illustrated steps) #but today it was Cant Read and Confusing All Three Recipes I Looked At With Each Other And Making An Amalgamation On Accident #along with Missing Ingredients and Philosophical Dispute With Author #(egg yolk in the crust and then she never uses the white. which i do not agree with at all #chekhovs egg--if part of an egg is used in a recipe then so too does the other part of the egg. get creative. #in this case i put it in the topping as it was already described as supposed to be crispy so... #it probably could have done with half a white honestly but it did turn out crispy) #i did also use a little food coloring. not proud of it but it was a very unappealing shade of green that lacked contrast with the crust #so *shrug*

[writerscornercafe]

WCC's Round Robin #5

Thank you @tommokat (green) @thinlinez (red) @marigoldaster (blue) @lhhomefics (orange) and @beelou (pink) for writing such a cute drabble for Harry's birthday!

“Now what am I supposed to do with this?” Louis held up some weird bowl thing, that kind of looked like a plant pot but with a hole in it.

“That’s for separating the egg yolk from the egg white,” Anne explained, her voice slightly tinny through the video call. “You won’t need that for this recipe, love.”

Louis set it back down on the counter and surveyed the goods in front of him. It was a little intimidating to look at all the ingredients and tools he’d need to use, but he was determined to make the best damn birthday cake Harry’s ever had in his whole 29 years of life. Or at the very least, an edible cake.

“There’s no need to look so scared, Lou. I can walk you through the whole thing, if you’d like.”

“Uh, I think I’ll be okay. But you can stay on the line if it makes you feel better.”

Anne laughed, “Sure, love. I’ll stay on to make myself feel better.”

As she continued to giggle, Louis no longer questioned where Harry got his sass.

The recipe had clearly stated that it would only need about 2 hours of baking and making the cake, but why was Louis still covered in flour and just started heating up the oven 3 hours later? At this rate, Harry was going to burst through the door any time now and Louis was already suffering from a migraine from waking up at the crack of dawn, sore arms due to fucking whisking and a whole list of other traumas that comes with trying to surprise his husband for his big 29th.

Speaking of which, shit, Harry was due to come home in half an hour and the cake still was only half baked. Louis was sort of glad he had chosen a cheesecake recipe which meant that he could pass it off as a half baked cheese cake. That’s a thing right? Half baked cheese cake? He was sure he had seen it somewhere online. 

Louis stood there, not knowing what his next move was.

“Louis, love? Are you still there?” Anne spoke quietly.

“Yes, still here. Why is this so bloody hard?” Louis said as he placed his head in his hands, elbows on the counter. “Are you sure the crust goes in the oven without the cheese… stuff?”

“Yes, Lou, trust me on this. Harry loves cheesecake and you’ll do brilliantly. If you just, you know, bake the damn thing…”

“Okay, okay, I’m putting the crust in the oven now and hoping that nothing explodes or whatever.” Louis mumbled and picked up the dish with the crust in it to do just that.

“That is very reassuring love,” Anne sighed sarcastically on the other end as Louis closed the oven door. 

Just as Louis set the timer for the oven he heard the door opening. “Shit” he gasped to Anne. “I think Harry’s home early, what do I do now?” 

“I guess it’s not going to be a surprise anymore,”  Anne shrugged.

“Lou? Are you here?” Harry called from the front door. 

“Coming, darling!” Louis hurried out of the kitchen. It was going to be a surprise no matter what. “I have your mother on the phone and she wants to talk to you.” Louis gave Harry a hello kiss on the cheek and thrust the phone into Harry’s hand. 

“Hi Mum! How are you?”

Louis snuck back to the kitchen while Harry was distracted and put his head in his hands. This is not going as planned.

The cake still needed to bake, so there was no hiding the smell of it in the oven, but Louis figured maybe a quick clean of the kitchen would be a good idea. He set forth on his quest by stacking every dish possible into the sink, followed by the pile of spoons he used when ‘testing for quality.’ Anne didn’t believe his reasoning when he did that, just like Harry never did, either.

“Lou?” Shit, don’t come in the kitchen, Harold, Louis internally cursed. “Mum has to go but has something to tell you first!”

“Okay, I’m coming!” He rushed back to the main room, taking the phone from Harry with a sweet smile and addressing Anne once again. “Yes?”

“Just one more thing, love,” Anne smirked. “Don’t put 29 candles on the cake.”

And then she hung up.

Louis reasoned that he must have heard her wrong, she must have reminded him to put the 29 baby pink candles he had specifically gotten since it was Harry’s favorite color.

He looked up to see Harry staring at him expectantly. There was a sparkle in mossy greens. “Are you making something? It smells really good.”

Well, damn.

“Can you please close your eyes and pretend that nothing is happening for ten minutes?” Louis asked desperately as Harry smirked.

“As long as you make it worth my time.” His husband said cheekily. Louis groaned, hands coming up to cover Harry’s eyes and pressing a kiss into the corner of Harry’s lips. He could see Harry dimpling.

“Ten minutes.” He said one last time and made a mad dash for the kitchen. 

…

Louis was granted his 10 minutes. When he returned from the kitchen he found Harry laying on the couch, his freshly manicured fingers intertwined on his chest.

“Is whatever smells so good, done?” Harry smiled at Louis.

“Babe, I tried so hard, really. But I’m afraid I am not the baker your mum assured me I could be,” Louis sighed and motioned Harry to move his long legs. He flopped down on the couch. He turned to meet Harry’s eyes and simply said, “Happy birthday baby.”

“Thank you love, and I’m sure you didn’t mess anything up, I still want to see!” Harry exclaimed excitedly.

“Okay, come with me but no making fun of me okay?” Louis sighed.

“I would never baby, I’m so lucky to have you even try baking for me, I know how much it frustrates you,” Harry said earnestly, grabbing Louis’ wrists and pulling him in for a quick kiss. 

Louis stroked his hands down Harry’s arms and then pulled away and covered Harry’s eyes with his hands. He guided Harry into the kitchen like that as his silly boy kept giggling and trying to bat his hands away.

The cake was on the counter, the crust looking a little burnt and the cheese was not really neat. Louis felt like the 29 pink candles - that he was sure Anne meant to tell him to put - were what saved the cake. He pulled his hands away from Harry’s eyes and dramatically pointed to the cake. “Ta Da!”

Harry’s jaw dropped in a gasp. “Baby it looks really good. I can’t wait to try it.”

“I had help in the form of your mum but of course she can only do so much over the phone.” Louis shrugged sheepishly.

“Of course, I love it so much. Thank you.” Harry pulled him in for a hug and kiss. “I love the candles, by the way. It’s a nice touch.”

Internally, Louis stuck his tongue out at Anne. He knew Harry would like the candles.

“Alright, are you ready to make a wish and try the cake?”

“I have everything I ever need right here in this room, love,” Harry whispered.

“You absolute sap. I love you.” Louis pulled him into a kiss that lasted for more than a peck, their lips moving together in sync. When they pulled back, Louis looked into Harry’s eyes and all the pain that he went through to make this cake, the migraine, the sore arms, this right here, made it all worth it. 

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

#wcc member fic #wcc round robin #round robin 5 #hlcreators #hlupdate #hljournal #tracksintheam #trackinghome #trackinghappily #1Dficvillage

[sunnytumbies]

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that! 

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

___________________________________________________________

Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest. 

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home. 

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven. 

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Cal is not having a good day. 

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach. 

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through. 

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much. 

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t  matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits. 

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans. 

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles. 

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone. 

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay? 

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day. 

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything. 

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do 

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course. 

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it. 

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?” 

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it. 

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.” 

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Some time later, Quincy comes for him. 

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach. 

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?” 

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

  “Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

  “No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. 

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.” 

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely. 

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom. 

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”  

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.” 

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea.  “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.” 

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.” 

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.” 

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him. 

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches  for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea. 

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache. 

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.” 

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.” 

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?” 

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

#tiny-tum #perhaps it's for the better since i s2g that entire 500 words was the first sequence describing what amy baked but #i think they were like. better words! #i digress this is what we've got #Amy #Cal #Quincy #stuffing #stress eating #stress baking #belly rubs #dysphoria #side fic #answered #i think the reason im so unhappy with this is that i want quincy to be somewhat mysterious until the major fics are released but also i just #cant imagine anyone being super invested until they know more about these ppl #which is fair #but...yeah! hope ppl enjoy! #why am i so anxious about this

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

A thing for @dabneelandheartfilibruh  nalu playlist event. It kinda got away from me in the end though 😅

But regardless of how I feel about it I hope you guys enjoy it! The song I used was 'Cake by the ocean’ by DNCE

Also slight implied naughtiness warning just ahead!

Somehow these things always happen. They never meant for these things to happen but no matter what, they just keep happening.

First of all it was 3 am, that alone was the start of the problem. An impromptu movie night at Natsu’s apartment that had them wrapped in one another for hours on end, leaving legs dead and tingling. The two of them definitely weren’t going anywhere tomorrow. Lucy had sighed when that realization had first struck her, quickly accepting the impromptu vacation day Natsu had given her.

Then the movie had come on, some old Italian movie, black and white with scratchy quality that hurt her eyes a bit. And honestly? Lucy’s mind was barely on it, slowly drifting off to Natsu’s fingers combing through her hair, nails scratching at her scalp while his other hand drummed steadily on her stomach.

Natsu’s attention was hooked on the TV, absolutely enraptured with the old romance where a young nun was protecting an enemy soldier. He was quiet for the most part, save for the occasional soft chuckle or a sigh when he nosed at her neck.

Then their stomachs growled, loud enough to block out the gunfire as the soldier carried the injured nun away to safety. Lucy couldn’t help the slight pink tinge that crept up her neck, her cheeks puffed out in a pout as Natsu’s laugh escaped him in a loud guffaw.

He ruffled her hair with a hearty chuckle before pushing Lucy to her feet, dragging her off to his already messy kitchen to make an even bigger mess.

Pasta, he had said with a twinkle in his eye, was the only meal worthy of the old Italian film. Already he was grabbing the sauce and the spaghetti out the cupboards despite her weak protests, banging around happily despite the early hours, sure to wake his neighbours.

But they should’ve been used to the madness by now, given who they were living beside.

Somehow though they got lost along the way of point A to point B and ended up, trying to bake a cake. At one. In the morning. Sometimes Lucy has to wonder what power Natsu had to make her throw logic out the window like this.

And that idea too was a bust, the batter now splattered all over the cheap counters and floor, Happy already quick to work on cleaning up starting with the near empty baking pan, resting on its side with the last of the batter oozing out. It was just inches from the oven, a near success before pandemonium broke out.

But these things happen.

Lucy hopped up on the counter, grimacing at the squelch under her thighs but not attempting to clean it off despite how it rubbed stickily on her skin. She had an egg smashed in her hair, the yolk blending all too perfectly with the blonde strands and white shell bits scattered about her hair.

Flour and powdered sugar dusted her every inch of her skin, with a particularly thick patch of white under her right eye, held in place by a glob of icing just barely dangling off her cheek.

It plopped with a loud ungraceful splat in her upturned palms, already sullied by the sugary coating from the earlier war.

Lucy’ll admit, he got her pretty good. She shuddered slightly, feeling something drip off her hair and down the back of her shirt. But she think she got him better.

Natsu ran a hand through his hair, settling beside her and dropping a heavy hand on her leg, leaving a rather sizable hand print of sprinkles on her skin. The part of his hair that wasn’t pasted down to his scalp stuck up in awkward spikes, held in place by the other half of the wasted icing.

An egg dripped into his eyes and from chin down there was a crust of brown sugar that reached down to touch at his collar bone with little spots of sprinkles littered throughout.

“Well that was fun.” Natsu said with a smirk, rolling his hand over her thigh. He ducked when she took a swipe at his head. Lucy pushed at his shoulder with a roll of her eyes, ignoring his sniggering. Her hand pulled away stickily, leaving a matching icing hand print on his skin.

This was going to be so much to clean up tomorrow, no wait- later. Later yeah.

She heard scratching at the wall behind them. The neighbour’s dog had a habit of doing this in the late early morning.

It wasn’t a nice thing to hear the first night she stayed over and got up to use the bathroom.

Lucy flashed off her hand with a muttered ‘you’re lucky I love you’ not liking the sticky feel coating all her fingers. So little flew from her fingertips with each hard shake, and Natsu’s sniggering got even more hearty the harder she tried, his other hand clutching at his dirtied shirt.

She stuck out her tongue and flashed her hand at him. A particularly thick glob of icing went splat! on his shoulder and Lucy gave a smirk of satisfaction at his little whine.

But there was still so much left on her hand though, Lucy thought, bringing her hand closer to her face for inspection. The sink was on the other side of the tiny kitchen, about 10 steps but she didn’t really feel like it. It seemed so far. Lucy’s tongue poked out, swiping at her bottom lip. And to be honest, such a waste of icing.

She shrugged lightly, making the decision to clean off her hand the right way. Lucy dragged her tongue across her palm, a single clean streak through the mess on her hand before it swiped up to her fingertip then dipped back inside her mouth.

She hummed appreciatively despite how cavity inducing their icing was, enjoying the little head buzz and the slightest hint of spiciness to it from when Natsu accidentally threw some pepper flakes into the mix.

By right it shouldn’t taste good but it did. Or maybe it’s just because she was hungry.

She absently continued cleaning off her fingers, zoning out for the moment. Lucy vaguely noted Natsu’s eyes intently on her and his silence, but was more focused on the matter at hand, literally.

Lucy huffed when her hand was all clean, sucking lightly on her thumb then pulled it out with a sharp ‘pop’, tongue swiping over her top lip, the sweetness in her mouth quickly disappearing from the last lick.

She grumbled weakly, shifting slightly atop the counter. Automatically she raised the other hand to lick clean, thoughts not all there as her mind wandered off, backtracking some minor details for her story and not quite paying attention

Lucy stuck her tongue out, leaning slightly towards her hand for another heavy helping of icing when warm fingers wrapped around her wrist pulled her out of her thoughts.

She turned slightly, tongue still half out and slightly confused which normally would’ve had Natsu laughing at how silly she looked. But instead he had her pinned with an incredulous look, brow raised high as narrowed eyes darted between her and her hand.

Then he smirked.

Something mischievous crossing his face as his eyes sharpened, grip on her wrist tightening slightly. That look…… Lucy didn’t like that look, she thought, opening her mouth to say something before promptly shutting it back as Natsu pressed her lightly fingers to his lips.

His grin widened evilly, tongue darting out and swiping over his top lip deliberately slow, taking in the red on her cheeks with too much joy as he gathered icing with the drag. Natsu closed his eyes and hummed, slipping his tongue out again for another go, dipping between crevices and running up the sides as Lucy spread her fingers wide. Half-lidded eyes taking careful note of his moves.

“Goddamn~” Natsu murmured, breath hot on her already heated skin. The word sung floated in the air and made her head buzz. Or maybe that was the sugar. Or maybe it was both.

“See you licking frosting from your own hand. Want another taste I’m begging yes ma'am~”

Lucy squeaked when heat engulfed her fingers, Natsu suddenly taking two of her fingers in his mouth. A muffled chuckle bubbled up from him at her reaction, tongue swirling languidly in slow circles around the digits.

He sucked hard and released them with a dirty sounding pop! cradling her now very clean hand against his cheek, nosing at her palm. He nipped her fingertips.

“Your fucking delicious~” He finished, leaning in close to her. And then the moment, the fairly sexy moment was ruined when Natsu stuck his tongue out playfully and waggled his eyebrows at her. “So fucking delicious. ” He teased.

Lucy huffed, poking playfully at his cheek. “You just butchered that part of the song.”

“Yeah but it worked for the moment didn’t it? Admit it, you liked it.” Natsu winked and dropped himself heavily on her shoulder, sending Lucy a coy look.

“Well you can keep being suave after we’ve cleaned up this mess in here and we get a shower.”

“But Luuuuuucy!” Natsu whined, stretching out her name. “That’s no good! Just let it stay and we can lose our minds and go crazy, crazy~

He fixed her with that look again, all evil and mischievous and heated as his sung words might’ve made her heart skip a beat or rep.  But Lucy had to stand strong,  stand tall in the face of Natsu’s tactics.

“No.” Lucy said firmly. “ clean first. Crazy after.”

Natsu groaned, slipping off her shoulder and falling dramatically into her lap. “You’re mean.” He moaned.

“But you still love me. Now scoot so we can start cleaning.”

He glared up at Lucy, fixing her with a grouchy pout, but the look in his eyes never changed, it only sharpened.  “Fine, but when we’re done and we get loose, then I’m gonna go fucking crazy. And you know it.”

#fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #nalu #nalu fanfiction #natsu x lucy #fairy tail fanfiction #nalu nerds #i don't like this too much tbh😅😅😅 #nalubookclub

[libraryscarf]

here is the piece i wrote for the @womenmadefullmetal zine, which i was profoundly honored to be included in! please check out their tumblr to see all the amazing art and writing that went into this project. i was asked to write about my best girl, winry, and i’m so excited to share this fic with you guys. <3

turning home

( ao3 / ff.net )

The Rockbell women have always breathed smoke, her grandmother tells her, not long after her parents die, but not soon either. We’re furnaces, you and me, she says. Anything that tries to go through us will need to melt.

Winry tries to swallow the lump of black metal in her throat. It sinks into her stomach, distending her insides, like the stretched belly of a snake after devouring a rabbit. That darkness will dissolve eventually, worn away by the passing years and the Resembool sunlight. But fragments of it will float in her system always, pulsing now and then with the heartbeat of loss. It will coat her lungs with iron. It will spike her blood with steel. It will surface in the blisters on her palms, toughening them like hide.

Winry learns at a young age that grief can serve her, both as her burden and as her armor.

: : :

“You shouldn’t be checking in so often. I’m fine. And even if I weren’t, Den knows who to fetch if I need help.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling, child?!”

“Well...I thought you might appreciate an update on how I’m doing.”

“Winry. You don’t think I have my own connections in Rush Valley? I’ve known how you were doing the moment you set foot in that wretched city.”

Winry smiles. The anxious bite in her grandmother’s voice hints that Pinako hasn’t been quite as collected as she likes to profess.

“Several people here have told me stories about you.”

“Of course they have. I’m a legend.”

“So you did attach automail fingers to Mrs. Wheeler’s foot instead of toes.”

“Who told you that?!”

“Mrs. Wheeler. And Mr. Wheeler. And Mr. Garfiel. And--”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. She thanked me later. Made it easier for her to pick things up.”

Pinako’s laughter crackles over the line, and Winry joins her. If they were together, sharing this evening as they have countless others in that yellow house, she would see the spidery lines around her grandmother’s mouth smooth away, and Pinako would resemble the woman of so many years ago, her eyes bright as beads of mercury.

: : :

She sits on the wide windowsill of her room, one leg swinging over the shoe-beaten, dusty street outside Atelier Garfiel. The workshop is humid, ripe with male armpits whose owners are always traipsing in.

Heat rises from the ground in shimmering waves, and she pulls in a long breath. The air tastes like the burnished insides of a forge; the sun prickles in a glittering sky. Yesterday one of her clients had cracked an egg onto his metal knee to the delight of six local children. The sun above reminds Winry of the yolk: a perfect golden disc surrounded by sizzling white.

She loves it here. It isn’t the same love she feels for the sweeping countryside where she was born, a slow, soft thing layered with complications of old sorrow.

The love she harbors for Rush Valley is quicksilver and octane, a rush of searing air, a keen and yellow energy that wakes in her muscles each morning and blasts wild through her dreams each night. It is a rough town that Winry loves, but it fits her roughened parts, and Rush Valley loves her back.

: : :

“I’m happy you’re settled in. Tell the others hello from me.”

“Mei already said hi when she heard I was calling. Zampano and Jerso, too. Oh, and Ling suggested bringing you here to serve as the official court mechanic. They’ve apparently never had one before, but he said you could name your price.”

Winry’s grin stretches across her face. That sounds so like something Ling would suggest that she can nearly hear it in his voice.

“And Lan Fan’s thoughts?”

“She admires your work, but doubts you’d want to relocate so far just to take care of her arm.”

Winry’s fingers skim the pocked surface of the worktable. She knows every divot, every chip and scar, as though they’re carved in her own skin.

“I’d like to visit Xing,” she admits.

“There’s a lot of murmuring about a railroad across the desert. Goodness knows how long that’ll take—but then you and Granny could both come.”

His voice has changed, even since they last saw each other. Winry presses a knuckle to her mouth, her eyes stinging.

“Will you be happy there?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“...Winry?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She chews her thumbnail, cursing her stupid throat for closing up.

“Don’t be stupid, Al. I’ve no idea what you mean.”

: : :

Wandering down the uneven rows, Winry’s eyes skim the names. She halts in front of two close-set stones, where others have left tokens. Her eyes fall on a wilting sprig of sweet violets and yellow honeysuckle.

She sinks cross-legged to the ground between the graves, her back and knees complaining after so many long nights of work. The violets’ brittle stems crumble under her fingers into fine gray dust.

Her father had adored sweet violets, Winry remembers suddenly. He had yelled in delight upon finding the first clumps of them in the spring, when winter still bared its teeth in the frigid midnights and ghosted the mornings with frost. He would gather handfuls, stuffing his nose into the velvet purple blossoms. Winry’s mother laughed often and openly, but never was it filled with more delight than when her husband doubled over, possessed by a fit of uncontrollable sneezing.

A warm drop slips down her cheek, and she swipes at it viciously. Another drop splashes onto the end of her nose. Then the sky opens, unleashing a violent spring tempest that sends Winry sprinting for cover. The overhang of the groundskeeper’s shed provides the closest thing to shelter and she crowds herself under it, blinking the lukewarm rain out of her eyes.

In her haste to escape the storm, she hardly notices the soft grit of the disintegrating violets in her hand. Following a vague impulse, she holds them up to her nose, inhaling their powdery, dying sweetness.

Then she sneezes.

: : :

“Hey, you actually picked up.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Winry’s voice is sharp, camouflaging the way her entire body melts at hearing his voice. A voice that is safe, and healthy, and--as usual--a bit too loud.

“Jeez. Is this a bad time?”

A telling pause.

“Are you crying?”

“No!!”

Her head feels like someone has packed it with wet paper. Ed chuckles ruefully.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” Her “m” s and “n” s are migrating toward “b” and “d” territory.

“You sound awful.”

“Right, I’m hanging up.”

“Okay, okay! Sorry!”

Slowly, Winry puts her ear to the phone again. And then sneezes on it.

“Maybe...a tiny bit sick,” she admits.

“Stop pulling all-nighters.”

“I don’t have an all-nighter to blame for this. And don’t tell me what to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ed says, half-laughing.

The line crackles as he sighs. “You had to take care of me so much. I feel kinda guilty.”

“You were an extremely bad-tempered patient.”

“Well your bedside manner isn’t exactly welcoming!”

Winry hears the veins popping in his neck and forehead. Ed communicates everything of himself through his voice. He could so easily be sitting across from her.

She closes her eyes and imagines he is.

“You know I didn’t really mind,” she says.

A sheepish grunt from Ed’s side. “Is that because you got to boss me around and tell me what to eat and when to sleep?”

“That... was a contributing factor.”

“I knew it!” he crows victoriously. “You’re sadistic. Sick with power.”

“So was that your backwards way of saying, ‘Winry, I’m so sorry I’m not there to nurse you back to health and make up for all the times I was a stubborn jerk’?”

The pause before his answer is just long enough to worry her.

“It would take a hell of a lot more to make up for that.”

Winry’s smile evaporates, her heart twisting.

“Ed...”

“What? I can’t be sincere for a second?”

“It’s not that . I…I just--”

His laugh interrupts her. “You don’t need anyone to take care of you, Winry. You never have.”

“It might be nice, though,” she mumbles. “Once in a while.”

“Consider the hint taken.”

Her chest expands with relief, a warm wave lifting her on its crest.

“Come home soon.”

Ed hesitates. She is hard to lie to, and if he’s smart, he won’t try.

“I’ll hurry.”

Winry believes him.

: : :

When her head aches and her hands are chapped, Winry walks up the hill to the big tree, where an aged swing creaks against its ropes. The valley flows away from her feet in green, rolling swells.

Her mind is busy, though her hands are not.

She thinks of her newest customer: a girl, no older than Ed when he had his surgery, her right hand missing from a farm mishap. Winry had reassured her that with automail, she could still play her fiddle.

She thinks of how Ed mentioned over breakfast how nice a house would look, there at the top of the hill where the foundation of a burned building still lies.

She thinks of Al’s recent visit, when he brought silk and tea and bright, human laughter across the desert.

She thinks of how her daughter reminds her in a thousand half-painful ways of Pinako, asleep now next to her own children.

She thinks of the countless small responsibilities waiting for her at home: an electric motor to tune up, a bruise to kiss and bandage, a shipment invoice to file, a long-overdue call to Paninya, a pie crust to bake.

Winry listens to the birds talking in the branches high above her. She smiles.

Then she turns down the hill, beginning the walk back home.

#scarfwrites #fma fanfiction #fma #women made fullmetal

[togafukagiftexchange]

Making Miles

Written by @otomegrandma for @death-to-nekos, using the prompt Touko being loved + appreciated by Togami and introducing him to Komaru

(1 gift of 3)

Touko is far from acclimated to the feeling of sharing a bed with another person, and so when she wakes up to an empty bed, she does not register it as strange. She would have been right to, though, considering it was not her bed that she had slept in.

“Get up. You’ve had twenty-three minutes.”

Her eyes split wide as if she’s been doused in cold water, and a primal noise erupts from the back of her throat. She rips the blanket off of her head as she shoots into a sitting position. Byakuya’s voice is lower in the early morning, but no less clear and precise, lacking any hint of lethargy. Touko can barely make out his expression through her own bleary vision, but his posture is unmistakable.

Squinting, she rubs some of the crust from her eyes and wets her dry lips. Byakuya’s arms uncross, and one reaches for the nightstand beside the bed. When he holds something out to her, it takes a moment for Touko to realize it’s her glasses.

“O-oh,” she says, croaky, and takes it from him and places it over the ridge of her nose. His blurry form coalesces into stark clarity, a hundred different fine details from the stray hairs tucked under the frame of his glasses to his long eyelashes lining his half-lidded eyes to the unbuttoned slot at the top of his dress shirt all materialize at once. She clears her throat. “Thank you.”

Byakuya’s own lips press together. After a moment, “The coffee is still warm.”

She’s grateful. At work, it’s typically Touko who makes coffee for Byakuya, but they both consume an unholy amount of it on a daily basis. The coffee’s temperature may have cooled, but it was still burnt, and Touko compensates by pouring creamer into the mug until the carton is empty and the liquid inside is as white as alabaster.

Aside from the small table where Touko sits with her drink, Byakuya stands at the stove working on what smells like a western breakfast.

Touko smiles into the rim of her mug, a pleasant warmth filling her chest different from the one that fills her stomach. The mug is half-empty when Byakuya places two plates and two sets of utensils on the table, one in front of her and the other at the nearest seat rather than the one across from her. She eyes the set of eggs on her plate, one with the yolk intact and the other not, both with edges burnt like the contents of her drink.

“I-it smells really good, Byakuya-sama,” she sighs, bubbly. “I feel honored… Getting to eat food made by your hands…”

Byakuya pulls out his seat before sitting down. “Thanks are unnecessary. This is my home, which makes me your host.”

He rebuked her, but her smile widens. “My host…” Touko pokes her fork into a sausage on her plate, which breaks into two when she tries to lift it. She picks up one of the crumbly halves with her fingers and pops it into her mouth. “I don’t eat complete breakfast meals often…” she says, covering her mouth as she chews.

“You should,” he replies, as he cuts one of his eggs into pieces.

“I know.” She made many meals for and with Komaru when they were stationed in Towa City, but she still lacks the energy in the morning to prepare something if she’s the only one that’s going to be eating it. “M-maybe…” her mouth splits into a green smile, “I-I would, if I could eat your cooking more often…”

Byakuya looks at her out of the corner of his eye. When he replies, it’s after his mouth is hidden behind the rim of an empty mug. “We’ll see.”

They eat the remainder of their breakfast wordlessly. Byakuya focuses on his plate, mostly, as Touko watches him, but sometimes he will look back at her as he chews. There’s little examination in his glimpses at her, no judgment, and no hesitance in the meeting of their eyes. This isn’t routine, but these days they can spend the night together and Byakuya won’t feel compelled to emotionally hide himself from her the morning after. When Touko’s hand rests on the table, Byakuya’s hand eventually comes to rest on top of it.

She has to leave soon, though, as they are both busy people. Touko tells him this, and he says “hmm,” and gets out of his seat and takes both of their dishes. She doesn’t leave immediately, though, and instead waits while Byakuya scrubs away the excess food off their plates and forks, soaps and rinses them, dries and puts them away.

“Byakuya?” she asks, this time without the honorific.

He hums again in response, and rinses and dries his own hands before approaching her where she’s waited. Their eyes meet again, Touko looking up at him and him looking down at her. Byakuya’s wrinkled hands come to wrap around her waist and pull her close.

She tilts her head up and closes her eyes, but Byakuya’s lips only press against her forehead. “Touko,” he says in return, and her heart quivers in her chest.

——

The smell of spices and meat permeate the Naegis’ kitchen, just as the sound of scraping and cutting and sizzling becomes background noise to casual conversation. It’s an aroma and atmosphere Touko has come to appreciate as familiar, and as she and Komaru work through the motions in their established roles and turns, her mind sinks away from the harsh buzzing and stress of work.

Before, Touko would never have expected to find being with other people relaxing.

“Touko-chan, does this look okay?”

Touko looks over. The pot Komaru looms over and stirs is filled with chopped potatoes, carrots, apples, and fish, all simmering in chicken stock.

“I would call it done… I don’t like it when they’re too soft.”

Komaru tilts her head, continuing to stir the pot. “I’m not sure… You always make them really hard…”

“W-why did you ask if you were going to second guess me?!”

Komaru hums thoughtfully. With a fork, she tries poking one of the potato cubes. Instead of being speared, it gets pushed along the side of the pot. “A minute longer, I think. It won’t get mushy, don’t worry.”

Curry was something they both had a taste for, they’d discovered back in Towa City, and whenever they had the ingredients for it they could agree upon it easily. That circumstance was rare, though, and normally they’d make their meals with what they could find.

Touko had learned when she was younger how to make meals with sparse ingredients, which became useful in Towa City when she and Komaru had to make do with what they could scavenge. But sometimes, if they were lucky, they would come across something that could make for more than just a bare meal. After the battle in Towa Tower, Touko and Komaru had occasional bouts of free time in between missions, and when the stars aligned they’d use it to make nicer meals for themselves.

The food didn’t always turn out, but they both enjoyed it, and gradually they improved. During their regular communications with Future Foundation, Komaru often told Makoto what they last made, which - again, when Touko and Komaru were lucky - resulted in more than just rations and medical supplies being sent in their next supply drop.

The pot scrapes against the counter as Komaru pulls the it off the heat. “It already smells good,” says Makoto, who had been standing against the sink mostly idle since everything that needed to be cut up had been taken care of. He smiles. “Thanks for joining us for dinner, Fukawa-san.”

Touko smiles back, a bit smugly. “O-of course. I have a short weekend this week, so I want to make the most of it before I go back to work.”

Makoto scratches the back of his neck. “We’re honored.”

“Don’t be so bashful, niichan. We’re just eating dinner together, and Touko-chan and I used to do that every night. You’ll make her feel awkward.”

“H-hey, don’t put words in my mouth…” mumbles Touko.

Komaru rolls her shoulders, and puts the wooden spoon she was stirring with on a towel to avoid getting broth on the counter. She turns to the den of ingredients they’d gathered and picks out what she needs to finish make the roux. There’s flour, and she knows that there’s butter in the fridge, but there’s one ingredient she can’t find in the pile.

“Touko-chan, did you take the ginger already?”

She gets a confused look in return. “Why would I need that?”

Komaru lets go of the flour and moves to the cupboard where she and Makoto keep their spices. When it’s not there, she looks through some of the other cupboards because she knows she and Makoto aren’t exactly on top of keeping their kitchen organized. It’s not in any of them, either.

“What are you looking for?” Makoto asks.

Komaru scratches her neck as she closes the compartments. “Eh… do we really need ginger for this?”

Touko almost bites her nail before she stops herself. “I don’t -”

“I’ll get it,” Makoto interrupts enthusiastically. ”The store isn’t that far away, and I’m not really contributing right now, so it’s no problem.”

There’s a pensive look on Touko’s face, but Komaru doesn’t wait to be relieved. “Thanks, niichan! I’ll start on the roux now, so you better hurry!”

Makoto laughs nervously as he heads towards the door, making a detour for his coat on his way out. With a put-upon sigh of relief, Komaru smiles and goes digging for a sauce pan.

“H-he’s so obedient,” Touko says, once he’s out of earshot, or she figures he is, “… l-like a dog…”

Komaru grunts as she rises to her feet with her pan. “I… wouldn’t go that far…” She puts the pan over the heat, lowering one of the nobs before she leaves it to grab butter from the fridge. “I’m almost an adult now, but he’s still the older brother, so he’s really the one that’s supposed to be making dinners and stuff. Even if he’s not, he still wants to be the responsible one.”

Touko didn’t grow up with any siblings, older or younger. Her parents rarely looked after her, and were more often a hindrance than people she could rely on. Even if she understood Komaru and Makoto’s relationship, she didn’t have any experiences of her own to relate it to.

Unless Touko counted Komaru, which sometimes, she did.

The sound of the door opening could easily be heard from the kitchen in their small apartment, but Touko wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t followed by Makoto’s voice. “Ah, Togami-kun?”

It’s followed by Komaru’s, who’s head instantly turns. “Togami-san?!”

And who was followed again by a much less surprised “Byakuya-sama!”

A knife clinks against the counter as Touko darts out of the kitchen and towards the door. Komaru is extremely confused, and she quickly spreads butter to sizzle over the pan before stepping away. At the door, Byakuya peels a tan jacket off of his shoulders as he makes what looks to be small talk with Makoto, who smiles amiably while rubbing the back of his neck.

Though Komaru knew he and Byakuya were teammates at work and that he and Touko were becoming closer (something her friend feverishly reiterated), she still knows the man as the mysterious, cold-mannered agent of the Future Foundation. Seeing him in her home hanging his coat on her apartment’s coat rack was like something out of a fever dream.

His eyes shifts away from her brother and towards Touko as she approaches him, wringing her hands seemingly to restrain herself. Komaru could see the corners of his lips twitch - inward or outward, she couldn’t make out.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Touko happily sighs.

“I don’t miss appointments.”

The cold response makes Komaru cringe. She looks between the three of them. “I didn’t know he was coming over,” she calls out.

Makoto’s wide eyes dart over to her. “Oh! That’s my bad, ha… we talked about it at work - or, Fukawa-san brought it up, but I thought it sounded good. Togami-kun and I don’t meet often outside of work, so I was really surprised he agreed to come.” His brows furrow apologetically. “I didn’t think to give you a heads up, ah… sorry.”

Even if it was on accident, being left out of the loop still annoyed Komaru. It would be rude to object now, of course, so she doesn’t.

After an I’ll be right back, Makoto leaves for the store. Touko and Byakuya talk by the door for a while longer, standing almost awkwardly close to each other. Komaru remembers the pan she left on the stove and heads back, but it’s another two minutes before she’s joined by a very rejuvenated Touko.

The corners of her mouth stretch into a wide, tightly-closed smile. Touko’s eyes are clearly not trained on the food, instead glazed over as one hand drapes over the edge of the counter and the other grips pointlessly at a utensil. What’s on her mind is obvious to Komaru, but even though she’s watched Touko think and talk about Byakuya hundreds of times since they first met, it’s never looked exactly like this.

Byakuya situates himself a few feet away from them, near the sink.

He doesn’t seem to plan on striking up a conversation anytime soon.

Komaru looks away. “Touko-chan,” she starts, working a smile onto her face. “How is that… project you were talking about going?”

The delirious smile on Touko’s face snaps into something more personable. “W-what project?”

“You know, the one with, um… you were talking about it earlier, it had…”

Touko catches on to what Komaru’s referring to, but her eyebrows knit together. “Were you listening to me or weren’t you?”

“I was!” Komaru insists. “I was, but you brought up so many different things that I’m not really sure how I could refer to it… it’s not like it had a name.”

For a moment, Touko chews on her lip. It’s easy for her to assume when someone brings up her interests that they’re going to make fun of her, or are just being formal, but she’s resolved herself to trust in Komaru’s intentions. “I’m… still working on it. I’m at the writing stage, b-because I prefer to put things in motion rather than wait on a detailed plan, but the more I think about my outline the more unsure I am of it… I’ll probably have to re-write it all later.”

Komaru nods. “You write fast though, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah, on good days…” The words leave a bitter look on her face. “But I don’t have as much time to write as I used to.”

In contrast, Komaru smiles. “It’s your passion, right? Even though you have such an important job, you still make time to write. I think that’s really admirable.”

“Well…” Touko’s lips press into a tight line. “As long as I get inspired, I-I’ll write. I can’t… not do it.”

That part doesn’t leave as sour a look on her face. Komaru nods understandingly.

Byakuya speaks up from behind them. “I recall that you’d lost your inspiration.”

His choice of words seemed almost accusatory, but his tone bellied something more like passive interest. They both turn their heads. “Ah,” Touko sounds. Her eyes widen as she regards Byakuya, before hooding over. “F-for a while, I did… I told you about the I-novel that I shared with Naegi-kun, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to continue writing romance novels.”

Byakuya’s face is passive, merely making a single nod, but after a moment he doesn’t prod her to elaborate. Komaru fills the air. “What changed?”

“Well,” she continues, this time smiling, “some… things happened, and I tried experimenting some more… before, when I first started writing, my inspiration came from me wanting to fill holes in my life. When I was young, I could create stories where I expressed some of my desires, and then h-have those desires fulfilled, or…”

Even though she’s smiling, there’s still an anxiety in her voice, and her fingers link and unlink habitually. Her eyes dart between Byakuya and Komaru, and after a moment, she frowns.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some sort of gross creep… I-it’s just how I made it through things back then. B-but I don’t really get inspiration that way anymore. Or, I don’t… need to. Instead of trying to use writing just to get catharsis, I have to create things that are… new. Draw from the world around me instead of just myself. There’s still s-some wish fulfillment, but… I have to do more.”

Her fingers tie together and squeeze.

“That sounded dumb,” she says.

“It does not,” Byakuya says immediately. “Objectively, you are an accomplished writer. When faced with a creative roadblock, you chose to innovate rather than stagnate and wither.”

Like a spell, Touko’s hesitance is immediately lifted. She smiles.

The three of them continue to talk over the sound of scraping and stirring and whirring fans. Touko goes into more detail about her book, the setting she’s imagined so far and how it connects to the stories core themes - all sounding incredibly dark to Komaru, but she’s told by Touko that she never writes anything pointlessly bleak. Komaru talks about school, the friends she’s been able to make despite the circumstances - things the younger girl thought would seem utterly banal to a former billionaire heir like Byakuya, so she’s surprised when he makes occasional comments.

He’s still cold, but seeing Byakuya actually… talk - about something other than Future Foundation work - is new to Komaru.

With a whoosh of air that could be heard from the kitchen, Makoto returns with a grocery bag bearing a single item. Touko and Komaru finish preparing the curry, and with Makoto’s help they set the table with four sets of plates and utensils surrounding a pot of curry and a pot of rice, as well as some side dishes Touko had made. A warm collage of smells filled the room, no single ingredient standing out from the source.

The dinner atmosphere Komaru and Makoto were used to was tempered somewhat by the presence of their two guests. Komaru noticed that Makoto ate a bit slower when he was among people other than just family - a long time ago, back when that counted for more than just her. Similarly, Touko took much more care with the way she ate, though that might have had less to do with either of the Naegi siblings.

Conforming seamlessly with Komaru’s impression of him, Byakuya eats meticulously, his posture stiffly upright. She glances at him occasionally as he eats, but even though he takes so much time with his food, he hardly reacts to it at all.

Touko covers her mouth as she chews, and for a while longer when she speaks. “D-do… you like it?”

“It tastes really good,” Makoto says. “You two did a really god job.”

Touko hadn’t been looking at Makoto.

Byakuya swallows cleanly before he speaks. “I’ve tasted your cooking before,” he replies, “though, not yours, I suppose,” this time regarding Komaru.

He spoke so seriously. Komaru feels like laughing, but it would have come out just as stiff as Byakuya’s words. Touko. though looks like she’s on the edge of her seat. Just watching her makes Komaru feel a little nervous.

“It’s adequate. I prefer this to the constant ordering out at work.”

The tension in Touko’s face snaps instantly into an eruption of giggles, her clinging hands going back to rowing her utensil against the rice on her plate. “M-meals made like this are so much better t-than the greasy slop they make at chains…”

“We only eat it so much of it because Hagakure-san keeps ordering out,” Makoto points out.

“And you enable him by paying for his cut whenever he insists that he left his wallet in some inconvenient crevice,” Togami says. “Which has been every time, by the way. You are easily deceived.”

Komaru’s mouth makes an ‘o’, while Touko smirks. Makoto doesn’t look particularly taken aback by Byakuya’s insinuation, instead smiling meekly and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Wow,” Komaru says, stuffing a bit of rice into her mouth. She chews quickly and then swallows. “You really need to stand up for yourself, niichan.”

“Komaru,” Makoto laughs.

Even if Komaru hadn’t known what Byakuya and her brother had gone through together, she would still be able to tell just by watching them that Makoto had a lot of experience dealing with Byakuya’s personality, and that Byakuya afforded him in turn more humor than she had received as a relative stranger. Not that he had been outright mean to her, but around his friends, he seemed… lighter. Comparatively.

“So, um,” Komaru starts, rearranging bits of rice and meat on her plate as she focuses on the space just to the right of Togami’s eyes. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you and Touko-chan get together?”

Byakuya blinks at her, halting mid-chew.

Komaru tries to keep a affable smile, but the way it pinches at her cheeks tells her it comes across as forced. “I mean, Touko-chan mentions you a lot whenever we get together, but it’s a little, uhm, flowery? And you and I didn’t talk one-on-one a lot while we were in Towa City, so I might not have a very clear impression of you… ha.”

To Byakuya’s side, Touko cringes. “Byakuya is a very p-private person, he doesn’t -”

“I can speak for myself,” he interrupts.

Promptly, Touko closes her mouth. Her fingers quickly find each other and lock into place. Komaru thinks to herself that he could have been gentler.

“… Fukawa was correct,” he says carefully. He maintains strict eye contact, as if he were giving Komaru a job interview. “The details of our relationship are private, as they concern only us.”

It occurs to Komaru that he wasn’t even using her first name. Fukawa was how he had always referred to her, only marginally more familiar than being called Naegi’s sister, so she was used to it - but they were dating.

“However.” He regards her seriously. “Even if our relationship is a private one, it is still a relationship, and that is not private.”

Makoto’s utensil clinks against his plate. “Togami-kun,” he trails off.

“Nothing that stays between us is hidden because I think it is a threat. I am not… ashamed of her.”

“No one is saying you’re ashamed, Togami-kun,” Makoto says.

He faces Makoto only to turn up his nose. “You didn’t have to. Someone else did.”

Makoto blinks. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter who she is, what’s important is -”

“It wasn’t Asahina-chan, was it?”

Byakuya pulls a face.

“… Well,” Makoto scratches his jaw, “I can see why she might be… concerned…”

“What’s important,” Byakuya continues forcefully, “is that our relationship is not a point of weakness. Anyone who assumes as such is severely underestimating me. Rather, for me to hide my… relationship, would itself be a display of weakness.”

Touko stares at her lap, her head dipping down far enough to hide most of her face. One of her hands clings to a utensil, held frozen over her plate, the other trailing off at a slight angle to her side towards Byakuya. Komaru can tell that this wasn’t the first time Touko had heard this from him.

“You still didn’t, um, explain how you got together,” Komaru points out.

“Oh.” Byakuya lips contort, and he takes a sip from an empty glass. “Hm. That detail is private.”

Komaru scratches her chin. “Really? I really doubt it’s that strange…”

“I didn’t say it was - strange,” replies Byakuya, firmly.

Touko looks up. “Would it… you mind if I told it?” Although the tone of her voice is demure, her lips curl into a smile as she speaks.

“No,” he says immediately. There’s a pause, during which Komaru swears she can see Byakuya’s face getting redder. He swallows. “No. I will tell the story,” he corrects.

Touko’s eyes flicker away. Komaru notices Byakuya’s arm shifting just slightly.

——

The sink’s faucet hisses on and off periodically, punctuated by the sound of scrubbing and scraping. Soapy suds cling to the rim of the sink, as does water soak the sleeves of Makoto’s shirt from before he’d thought to roll them up to his elbow.

It was late into the night, now, and everything that they could have talked about had already been said, so Makoto fills the silence with intermittent humming. Makoto rinses the plates, utensils, and pots, and Komaru dries and puts them away. This is how they have always worked, mostly because Komaru thought drying was easier than washing.

From the window above their sink, Komaru can make out the ground level outside their apartment. The angle from where she stands puts a line of street lamps just within her view, and her eyes flicker to and from it as she mindlessly dries off everything Makoto hands her.

Beneath one of the lights, two figures stand together, one short and one tall, and for a long time they just stay like that. From this distance, Komaru can’t tell if they’re talking or not.

One rocks on the heels of their feet and fiddles with their fingers. There are no buses running at this hour, so they have to be talking.

“I’ll check in with you next time,” Makoto says, without looking at her.

“It’s okay,” replies Komaru. “I mean, do that, but I’m not annoyed or anything.”

The taller one places their hand on the other’s shoulder, and the shorter one stops fidgeting. A moment later, there’s another hand, this time placed lower, and they are pulled into an embrace. For a while, they’re frozen in place like that.

“That’s good,” Makoto says, and hands Komaru a pot.

#togafuka #otomegrandma #danganronpa #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #2018 #fanfiction #submission

[sweetescape01748]

Mimi’s Home Bakery

Kate O’Connor| Review | April 1, 2021

Whether it's cookies, pies, cakes, cupcakes, muffins, brownies...you name it- Mimi can make it. While in the kitchen with Mary Daniels Nahley Jones, or “Mimi”, you would never guess that this lean, energetic, eighty-four year old home baker, has zero professional culinary training. Mimi’s kitchen is not large by any measure, but it has a warm and cozy feel, with its own unique scent of freshly baked cookies whisked from the oven. Whenever we baked with Mimi there seemed to be flour, and mixing bowls all over the counter. However, the ingredients always seemed to be organized in perfect order. Her pantry is also stocked with at least three packages of King Arthur's flour, two large cans of Crisco, several canisters of White Granulated Sugar, and bags of Ghirardelli Chocolate Chips. Also, her refrigerator always holds a jug of homemade, Sweet Tea. However, no visit to Mimi’s kitchen is complete without squirting some of her homemade Simple Syrup in a glass of her Sweet Tea while indulging in her famous brownies. Mimi currently lives in Southport, North Carolina, which has been home to her for more than twenty years. 

Mimi raised three children in Danbury, Connecticut (in order of birth); Sue, Jeffrey, and Ann who now have children of their own. While her children were growing up, Mimi carried on her mother’s tradition of always having freshly baked desserts in the kitchen for the house to munch on. From a young age, Mimi was inspired by her own mother’s baking, and wanted to “follow in her footsteps''. She is now an active grandmother, and according to her grandchildren, the best baker they know. When she’s not baking, Mimi is either golfing, playing tennis, swimming, selling handcrafted baby knick-knacks to a local store, doing yoga, volunteering at church, or simply watching Netflix. However, Mimi’s passion for baking didn’t evolve until she started a family, and needed recipes to make for her household.

(Mimi on Thanksgiving Eve in  2011, holding one of her daughter’s favorites, Banana Cream Pie)

Tell me a little bit about yourself and how you got into baking? 

I grew up in Pawling, New York which is about 65 miles north of New York City.  I lived with my mom, dad, brother, and grandparents. We went to live with my grandparents, because my grandfather was very ill at one point and needed people to take care of him. So I always lived at my grandmother’s house. My mother always had something freshly baked, practically everyday. She was the one who inspired me. She was a wonderful pie maker, a wonderful cake maker, cookies, muffins...You name it. She could do it. My mother’s name was Helen Green Daniels and she was a teacher. She taught elementary school, got married, and of course women back then didn’t work after they got married because nobody would hire them and therefore she always had something whipped up in the evening. My grandmother was such a wonderful baker, and she inspired me as a grown-up to follow in her footsteps. I didn’t grow up with a culinary background, and I didn’t do a lot of baking when I was little, but I certainly watched my mother bake a lot of stuff. When I got married the first time, I certainly wanted recipes, so I got into it more after I got married. And now I try to bake at least once a week. I try to switch up what I make...Every night, I need to have a cupcake, a brownie, a cookie, or something around 8 o’clock at night, which is probably the worst time in the world to eat. 

What was a household favorite dessert that you can recall baking, that your kids loved?

I think my brownies, Chocolate Chip Cookies, and Christmas Cookies were a house favorite. I still make chocolate chip cookies, and I still make brownies, but now, since I’m retired, don’t tell anyone..I use a box. But sometimes I’ll make them from scratch. But I think every one of my kids loved my brownies...The kids also used to like my Whopper cookies. Remember the Whoppers? They’re the cookies where you have to smash the Whopper milk balls.

What is one of YOUR favorite go-to treats to whip up at home? Or for the holidays?

Well, I think for the holidays, Banana Cream pie, Pumpkin pie, pecan pie, cookies, and dessert sauces. I have to keep them [dessert sauces] in the refrigerator at all times. Those include a hot fudge sauce, and a butterscotch sauce. Isn’t that awful?

 What are some skills or tricks that you have learned throughout your at-home baking career?

Definitely get all ingredients together before you start the baking process...Then you always have what you need. I think my favorite part about baking is actually putting all the ingredients together and then of course, the results. I love getting everything together, getting it all measured out, and enjoying the finished product. 

 Out of the wide variety of baked goods, what would you classify as being the most fun to make? And why?

Well I’ll tell you, this is the complete opposite. It’s the Frosty Toffee Bits Pie. It is so fast and easy to make, and people love it. You buy a 9 inch graham cracker crust, then you take a package of cream cheese, sugar, half & half, frozen whipped topping like Cool Whip, and then a package of Toffee bits. I’m telling you Kate, it is absolutely delicious..bad for you, but delicious! I bumped into a couple whom I haven’t seen in awhile, and they go “oh we have that pie under your name in our recipe file. We just got it out and just made it”. 

What has been one of the hardest things you have ever had to bake and why?

I would not have been able to tell you a month ago, but a month ago, I found a recipe for a German Chocolate Cake. A three layered, German Chocolate Cake. Well I’ll tell you, it probably took over three hours to put the damn thing together. Pardon my french. And then the frosting contains coconut..and it’s absolutely delicious! It takes forever to put it together...and it just takes forever because you have to melt the chocolate bar, you have to make half a cup of strong brewed hot coffee, and then aside from the flour, the baking powder, and the sugar, you have to separate the eggs, and then bake it for about twenty eight minutes. But then you have to make the frosting, which requires six egg yolks, two cups of coconut, and then the two cups of pecans are optional. It’s a delicious cake but I think it must have taken almost three hours to put together. It wasn’t even made for a special occasion, just because I wanted to. I found the recipe in Southern Living Magazine and thought, “ooo I gotta make that”. Of course it took forever but when it was done, boy was it spectacular!

Every baker has a weakness, in your opinion, what would you say is your greatest weakness?

I don’t make pies quite as often as I used to, but my one weakness is making a pie crust. It drives me crazy because you have to roll it out, and make sure it’s round..they’re just so much work. Anyways, I don’t make a whole lot of pies anymore. However, per request, I do them for the holidays. 

What are some of your secret go-to ingredients to use as a substitute in a particular recipe?

I don't have any. Usually, if I get a recipe out, I’ve saved it because I like everything in it. If I’m going to use a recipe, you want to follow it pretty closely. Especially when baking, you need to comply with what the recipe tells you. I figure, they know what they’re doing.

Being such a talented baker, have you ever been tempted to open up a bakery or cafe of your own? (why or why not)

No it’s too much work!! I enjoy other things in addition to baking!!

How would you describe a typical day in your life today?

Three days a week, I start my day with Yoga for an hour, I love it.We all wear masks and it’s a great social event.  Then, I do a lot of sewing and knitting because there’s a little shop downtown in Southport where we live, and I sell my stuff there. So I sell my puppets, sweaters for children, blankets, bibs, and mainly things for babies. I have to work inside the shop at least once a month for a whole day. And then I eat out a lot, I attend church a few days a week because I’m on a few committees, so that’s pretty much my life now….*chuckling* 

Which would you say you prefer more, cooking or baking? 

Baking- I think. People love homemade desserts and breads, usually more than their meal. It ends the course the way you want it to end. I think people love desserts. Well-I think everyone loves certain meals but they remember the dessert...it came last, it’s sweet...And I think that’s important. 

I’m dying to know, have you ever made a “boxed” dessert?

Yes, almost always, I don’t make brownies from scratch anymore. I just get the box...Ghirardelli and Betty Crocker are the best, in my opinion...Although baking is much more rewarding when you do it from scratch and oftentimes it even tastes better! 

What sweet treat did you whip up this week?

The other day, I got a recipe for Chocolate, Chocolate Chip Muffins. They are loaded with chocolate, and then you add a bunch of chocolate chips in them. And you got to have a scoop of ice cream with them. So those have been recent creations of mine. 

Mimi’s Famous Brownie recipe:

2 sq . Unsweetened Ghirardelli chocolate (2 oz.) 

1/3 cup shortening

1 cup sugar

2 eggs

3/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 cup broken nuts (optional) 

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Melt together chocolate and shortening in the microwave;  beat in sugar & eggs.  Add flour, baking powder & salt.  Mix in nuts.  Spread in well greased 8” square pan & bake until top has dull crust, about 30-35 minutes.  A slight imprint will be left when the top is touched lightly with a finger.  Cool slightly; then cut into squares (16 2” squares).  Enjoy!!

[multipikblog]

Cooking Cartoon

Walking, the trek to Everest looks at the recipe book that Marshall is trying to seal. First, if the animator puts the eggs in the oven, it needs a baking powder to increase the yeast Cooking Cartoon Then the crust needs to be rounded. Then you need tomato sauce. For sowing cheese and small tomatoes are sown and lemon first. Cook for 20 minutes. Let’s see how Marshall does this. I will go back to where I knew me now with your PAH spider. It’s okay to make pizza. Marshall watched Rocky comment. This is the hamburger he wants. Burger bread with beef in the middle.

Add the mustard seeds to the ketchup, add the cheese and chop the tomatoes. It should be easy and hassle -free. Use more. Almost perfect, you’re completely back. Check out the recipe book on how to cook blueberries next so Sky can make a cake. To start, you will need flour, butter, sugar and vanilla sugar. Mix the eggs and peel the oranges. Then place the muffins in the oven for 15 minutes and try the Skyth. It must be too thin. Makes it thick on top. For the next chicks, the cake doesn’t catch a smooth bite. Take a look at the cucumber chips. Yes, little Dobin seems perfect. Yes, that’s how to make a smoothie, but let’s take a look at more information on how to cook it.

Pour the ingredients into this mixer. First you need to thicken the regular yogurt, which is made by cleaning and cutting the berries into bananas. Finally, add the apple juice and mix so that the fruit is smooth. Cartooning is not very good. Check out the repair book to find out what Chase did. Why not eat spaghetti with noodles and add a little salt and pepper? It’s time to pack cheese and grated vegetables. Well, well, now you get heavy equipment. Where's the spaghetti? Try the spaghetti dish. Ice making for Everest is now ruined.

She should pour a glass of milk and add sugar to the egg yolks to make it sweet. A little for the consistency and flavor of the vanilla bean. Then mix everything and put in the fridge and the crushed stone becomes a delicious ice cream. I’ll give you my recipe, I don’t think it should be known. I need more, but I think that’s enough to spread the cooking comics. This whole boy. I am a genius. Lasts 30 minutes forever. Not bad in 1 minute. So boy, I mean Ollie Everest is always here. Everyone can cook, yes. And I never had a problem. Yes, Marshall did not have to turn the crushed stone into ice. I had a few issues with what happened. Hello everyone. In fact, I heard your treasurer so we could have a laugh at the food. Oh, that’s sweet of you, but shiny, stop eating. Oh, what do we do with all these foods we don’t know much about? But I like the rest. What are we trying to do to me? I’m still far from this barrier, don’t worry about the pebbles I have We wrote a lot of food, yes, it's a lot of fun. What do you think you should wear as a pizza chef now? Yes, how to make a chef comic with branding and characters and I hope you will join us. You are ready to start with dry food, starting with drawing a face for our chef. Start with a chin and draw a curve in the center of the page. I'll come down, pull it back to the edge of his face and tie it up. Draw a little more C and a recliner on each side of this curve. For the other ear to work well, pull the end of the head from the top of the ear to both sides.Then pull the top of the hat and create a line or curve. Let's try to write a coca comic that connects each other. Put the circle on the side that has a good eye, and actually put a circle here for the other eye. It's in the eyes. Draw a small circle in the lower right and look for a small circle in the lower left. Now let's paint the big circles and leave those little white circles. We have to draw his big nose, we make a right circle in the middle of his nose. Chefs and drinkers do this by drinking a lot of drinks, but not all. But it could be one of them, so I'll draw a picture here and wear a scarf. It goes down and rejuvenates, then we touch his nose. At the end of the slime of the universe we are alive Read More....

[sugarplum-senpai]

4, 5, and 12 for Ereri :)

Thank you so much for your prompts, dear! 

4: “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not.”5: Cleaning12: Panicked/Accidental Confession

After writing 11k words of post-war angst, I thought some light crack would be more than appropriate for this. ;) I hope you like it and have as much fun with reading it as I had with writing!

Word Count: 2,1kRated F for Floof (and CCC for Cute Canonverse Crack)

(Read on AO3.)

Mischief, Mayhem, Soap, and Porridge

Eren despised the summer flu. And he absolutely positively hated this day.

Usually he loved cleaning days. They were fun. Today, however, was awful.

Looking back at it so far, Eren thought he should have gotten right back to sleep before he’d even left the bed. But he had left it and now he had to face the music. 

Which seemed to include having to witness Sasha sneaking up on Jean to carefully slip a wet bar of soap into the collar of his shirt, only to instantly flee into one of the shower cubicles.

“Arg!” Jean exclaimed, his hands shooting up his neck and his whole body jerking, his voice echoing through the bathroom and mingling with Sasha’s mischievous cackle. “What is this shit? Fuck!”

“Cleaning day, Jean!” Sasha jeered.

His face was red, but sadly not as much in agony as Eren would have hoped for. Jean had done his best to avoid cleaning anything all morning long and Eren didn’t have any hope that this would change any time soon.

Diligently scrubbing away at a sink that suffered under a nasty case of scale, he frowned. At least Jean’s back would be greasy and gross with sticky soap all afternoon long.

“You know, Sasha,” Jean teased in-between his ongoing efforts. “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not. Feels a bit like it now.”

Yeah, Eren huffed to himself with a scowl. It feels icky. Jean, ugh! The mere thought…

He suppressed a shudder.

“I’m not!” Sasha affirmed, still giggling. “Go to someone else for the flirting, Jean!”

“Don’t,” Mikasa said flatly, face completely blank.

Jean, who—much to Eren’s regret—had already managed to get hold the soap without even letting it slip through his fingers, smirked and now threw the bar at Mikasa. “Are you sure?”

She skilfully caught the bar with the half-filled bucket in her hands and Jean looked more than disappointed. “I’ll take over another room,” she said. “Don’t follow me.”

And gone she was.

“Stop trying so hard, man,” Connie said to Jean.

“Yeah, keep on cleaning the bathroom,” Eren agreed, tending to another spot of scale on the sink.

Sometimes he dreamed that he could pull off a scowl like Levi and make them work with just one single look. But no matter how much Eren tried, apparently he wasn’t intimidating enough. He sighed.

Oh, how he wished Levi was here! It would brighten Eren’s awful day immensely.

But Levi wasn’t here. And Eren gave a small, sympathetic frown at the thought.

Levi was sick. The summer flu, had Hanji announced this morning, and ever since no one had seen him. Eren had snuck up to the door of Levi’s quarters a couple of times and heard the nasty cough, the gut-wrenching sniffles, and had been thinking all day long about what could make it better.

Certainly not a filthy bathroom.

Cleaning HQ had already been on today’s schedule, but solely with the help of the other guys, with no Levi nearby to order them around, Eren wouldn’t come far. On the contrary. He’d have to do their work all over again to make it right. As soon as he was finished with this faucet, of course. At least the bathroom should be shipshape when they were done for the day. And the kitchen too.

Eren stilled at the sudden thought, close to cursing.

Shit, the kitchen! Hadn’t someone burnt the porridge this morning?

Ignoring the ongoing bickering between Sasha and Jean next to him, Eren considered his options: He could either finish the job here—and endure Jean’s presence—or he could scrape off dried crusts of porridge and whatnot that were caked to the cooker.

The cooker won.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going, Eren?” Jean sneered promptly.

“Kitchen,” Eren said.

Connie blushed.

And Jean paled. “Oh, fuck. Yeah! Thanks, man! I wouldn’t go in there today if they’d beat me to it.”

Eren rolled his eyes and went.

A few minutes later he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at a battlefield.

Whoever was responsible for this—probably Connie, Eren mused, only Connie could leave behind such a chaos and he and Sasha had been overly frisky all day—had done a great job of leaving behind as much destruction as humanly possible.

The pot hadn’t been scrubbed, the plates, cups, bowls, and cutlery hadn’t been washed. The counter was crowded with dirty dishes.

And the cooker…well. For the first time ever Eren actually agreed with Jean on something one hundred percent. It was bad. Really, really bad.

For the first time that day, Eren was glad that Levi was safely upstairs in his room, far away from what had occurred in here. Because one thing was certain:

Levi mustn’t see this.

Suddenly heavily motivated Eren stepped into the room, gathered his determination, and went to work. He started with soaking whatever dishes the sink could take, putting it all into the big, porridge-incrusted pot before filling it up with water. Then he took a deep breath and fetched a spatula. 

It soon was clear that burnt lactose and gluten was the most evil combination ever. Cleaning the cooker alone took the good part of the whole afternoon. And as he’d scraped and scraped and scraped at a particularly nasty spot, Eren began to wonder what kind of horrible person had determined that porridge should contain milk and oat.

Eren vividly hated that arsehole!

He scraped again, slipped, and banged his head against the cooker. Fuck.

After that he sat down on the floor, and nastily scowled once more at his surroundings.

He truly missed Levi. 

Without him being ill this situation probably wouldn’t even have escalated like it had and Connie would be sitting here on the floor now, pressing his hand against a bump on his forehead.

At least I heal quickly, Eren grimaced.

Despite his well-trained muscles his whole body was sticky with sweat and aching from the effort. It didn’t particularly help that it was a hot day and that it had rained that morning, leaving the air humid and awfully muggy. 

Eyeing the cooker, Eren thought the worst part lay behind him by now, though. All it would take now was a bit scrubbing and some more rough scraping at that one nasty corner. And the dishes.

If breakfast would have had tasted well at least, this whole thing probably wouldn’t have been all too bad either, Eren mused. But it had tasted downright disgusting, even for his rigorously humble soldier standards, and remembering the burnt taste on his tongue as if he was eating it again, Eren suddenly felt double betrayed. He should give Connie hell for this one day.

But then he thought of Levi again, laying in his bed and coughing, and Eren suddenly realised that Levi must have gotten a portion of this gross stuff as well.

No way that he could easily recover like this.

Scrambling up to his feet again, Eren went to check the pantry. There were still a few eggs, some bread and way, way down in its depths Eren even found a small package of ham. Yes!

Freshly motivated like this he set back to work, starting with the dishes.

At least the porridge came off the bowls and plates and cutlery relatively easily after all this soaking. He scrubbed and scrubbed and couldn’t help a confident smile when he’d stored the little stuff back into their rightful places in the cupboard.

After giving the pot another round of soaking he took the scraper back into his hands, refaced his nemesis of a cooker, and couldn’t help but feel an odd sensation of satisfaction when only half an hour of additional scraping later—seriously, Connie!—and another fifteen minutes of scrubbing Eren was finally, finally done, the cooker close to sparkling again, ready for use. And the kitchen itself as well.

Eren beamed. Time to cook Levi some food.

Lost in dazzling daydreams about earning Levi’s gratefulness and having him fully recover and back among them soon, Eren made some tea, then heated a pan, greased it with first melting the fat of the ham in it, and—bless his mother who had taught him how to fry eggs when he’d been only five years old—cracked in two eggs, that instantly began to sizzle and spread a wonderful, buttery scent. 

Eggs must be healthy, Eren thought, marvelling at the solidifying, clear whites and the sunny-yellow yolks. After a short consideration, he added a third one to the pan. 

“Levi will love me for this,” he mumbled to himself, turning away from the pan to cut the bread into slices so Levi could load it with ham or eggs as he liked. “Well,” he added. “Hopefully.”

“What.”

Eren froze, the knife halfway through the last piece of bread, his neck prickling in alert, every single one of his senses up in arms.

A pitiful sniff came from the doorway.

Eren turned around, and every single thought fell out of his head in blank panic as he recognized the intruder.

Levi stood in the entrance of the kitchen, his skin looking awfully pale and waxen, eyes red-rimmed and his nose bright red as well, probably sore from blowing it excessively, going by the handkerchief in his lifted hand.

I want to hug him! shot through Eren’s head, completely unhelpful.

“What did you say?” Levi rasped. “My ears are plugged.”

His nose sounded ‘plugged’ too.

“Um…I…” Eren blushed. And before he could stop himself, it all spilled out. “I wanted to make you a second breakfast, Sir, or lunch…dinner! I wanted to make you dinner, since the porridge this morning was so terrible, you see? So I thought you might be hungry and decided to cook and maybe make you smile, because I love yo–” he redirected his speech at the last second, “–your smile. 

“Haha!”

Well. He was fucked.

Levi stared at him, his eyes glassy and blinking just a bit too often.

Eren wanted to die.

And just as he thought he couldn’t keep up with this staring contest any longer without scorching to ashes right on this spot, Levi sneezed. And Eren dared to breathe again.

After blowing his nose and giving another heart-rending sniff, Levi stepped over to the hearth. His legs were a bit wobbly, Eren noticed, even though the scowl on Levi’s brow said otherwise.

“Is this for me?” he asked, gesturing at the eggs still sizzling in the pan. They looked done now.

Still utterly flustered, but apparently saved from the immediate danger of imploding any moment now, Eren nodded. “Um…yes. Yeah. The bread and tea too.” He pointed at the counter.

“Who goofed up breakfast? It was an experience.”

“Connie, Sir,” Eren stammered, slowly composing himself again. “I guess.”

“Thought so. Kitchen a mess?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

Lifting the pan Levi transferred its contents onto the plate Eren had already prepared, turned around to add the bread to the eggs and take the tea pot as well, but instead of just leaving the kitchen with his dinner, he looked up with his slightly unfocused, swollen eyes, stepped closer into Eren’s private space, and—to Eren’s utter shock and delight—gave him a warm, scratchy peck on his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Completely awestruck and blushing fiercely all the way up to his hair roots in an instant, Eren stood there, rooted to the floor, and could only stare and gape as Levi wobbled-definitely-not-wobbled out of the kitchen, while his hand slowly reached up to press against the spot where, just a moment ago, Levi’s lips had been. 

God, Levi had smelled absolutely breathtaking.

What a beautiful day!

He should give Connie a hug. 

Eren still stood there, elated beyond hope, when Mikasa found him five minutes later.

“What happened to you,” she asked, frowning at his expression. 

“What? Nothing, wha–what happened to you?” he managed, barely noticing through his love-crazed haze that she was soaking wet.

And…actually seething?

“I am going to murder Jean. You in?”

“What?” Eren mumbled. “Oh no, I guess he’s alright. I’ve got to go now.” He snuck past Mikasa. “Mop that floor, yeah? You’re dripping.”

“What.”

Completely immune to her wrath, Eren left her, already wondering about if Levi would kiss him again one day.

The sun set over HQ in stunningly glowing colours that night. And when it rose again on the next morning Eren awoke to a sneeze, alongside a murderous headache between his eyes.

And a besotted grin.

He still grinned when the sniffles set in around breakfast time, and he still grinned when the coughs began to shake him at noon. What was this flu? He was a Titan. She shouldn’t get sick!

Totally worth it, though, he thought.

He still thought so, when a knock came on his door and Levi stood there, looking much too healthy and wonderful again and offering Eren a plate with eggs and ham with a little smirk, that made Eren grin even wider.

Stepping aside he let Levi in. 

Eren really loved the summer flu.

#my writing #ereri #fanfic #snkartists network #canonverse #crack #canonverse crack #yes the title is a fight club reference #rated f for floof #lavenderhedgie #lol did I have fun writing this #poor Levi

[catcmack]

This last weekend my squad had another of our “Hannidinners”, wherein the delightful @littlethingwithfeathers cooks us wonderful food inspired by the food porn on the show Hannibal (our version contains no people).  I usually provide dessert.  And apparently there have been some requests for information for the cakes I made, which were devil’s food cake with a lavender buttercream and berry curd.  I’m not sure what people are most interested in knowing so I’ll just ramble on for a bit

Baking/Cooking

You can’t see it but there’s devil’s food cake in there.  Now, the exact recipe I used I got from the upscale bakery I work at.  I’m 99% sure it’s from one of my boss’s favorite pastry books and therefore not proprietary, but I don’t know which one and I’d rather not poke that bear.  Usually when I want to make a cake I just google recipes and look for one that’s highly rated.  Read comments, a lot of times there’s really good advice about that particular recipe. Oh, and I always reduce cooking time by 5 or 10 minutes to start with, every oven is different and I’d rather reset my timer for another 10 minutes then burn my cake because my oven is hotter than someone else’s.  

At the bakery I work at we use Italian Meringue Buttercream exclusively, and I’ve since started using it most of the time at home too.  It can be intimidating and does require a little more skill than American Buttercream, but it’s absolutely delicious.  American Buttercream is your standard butter/tons of powdered sugar/flavoring combo, which is very easy but also very sweet.  Perfectly acceptable to use if that’s what you’re comfortable with!  But if you’re going to use American buttercream I do recommend trying to pair it with something less sweet to help cut the sugar, like a tart fruit sauce or a bitter chocolate.  Italian Buttercream involves whipping egg whites into a meringue, pouring hot sugar syrup into the meringue while it whips to cook and stabilize the meringue, and then adding butter once the mixture has cooled.  This is the recipe I referenced while whipping up the buttercream this time.  To get the lavender flavor I steeped some lavender in some water and used that to make my sugar syrup.

For the curd, again I just google recipes and go from there. It’s basically just cooked and mashed raspberries and strawberries with a little bit of sugar, thickened with egg yolk.  If you want to make something similar good terms to google would be curd, coulis, compote, or gelee. Again, I like to keep the added sugar very minimal for things like this, so the fruit flavor is nice and bright and can balance the sweetness of the frosting.

Assembly

One of the best things I’ve learned since we opened the bakery expansion at work is that it’s OK if things don’t come out of the oven looking pretty.  At work our pastry chef cuts the cakes to level them, trims the outsides off so there’s no crust, and even scrapes the top “skin” off, so there’s a completely uniform texture throughout.  It’s OK if you have to cut up your cakes to make them look pretty.

The little rounds I cut out for these individual sized cakes were not pretty.  I had to go to work and I was impatient and I cut them out when the cake was still really fresh (cooled, but not totally finished contracting and settling).  Make sure your cakes are completely cool, and frankly I like chilling them too.  The firmer the cake, the easier to handle.  (But always serve your cake at room temperature, the texture and taste will be much more pleasing)

After I stacked all my layers together I slapped a crumb coat on the cakes.  This is where you cover the cake in a thin coat of buttercream to trap crumbs in, then chill it so the crumby frosting doesn’t mix with the clean frosting when you do your final decorating.  Birdie saw the cakes at this stage, she can tell you, they were super ugly at this point.  But buttercream hides all manner of sins!  Once the crumb coat was cold I used my final buttercream layer to straighten out the cakes and make them look good.  I’m terrible at making smooth buttercream coats so I just made a little vertical swipe pattern with the palette knife I was using to frost them. 

The blood splatters are just red gel food coloring mixed with vodka (it evaporates faster than water).  I had never done this before and was basically making it up as I went.  I used a small dropper (like an eye dropper but not one that had ever been used for medicine), a new toothbrush, and my fingers to fling my “paint” at the cake.  If you want to do something similar just play around with it.  Be warned though, it makes a mess, and food coloring stains.  I had a little makeshift parchment paper spray booth surrounding my cakes and I still ended up on my hands and knees scrubbing red food coloring off the floor.

And finally, the flowers.  So, I learned to pipe flowers when I was in junior high as part of home ec classes.  That was...awhile ago (I’m not the one decorating cakes at work).  I still kind of remembered some of it but honestly most of what I know now I learned from youtube.  Video tutorials are your friend.  Frosting is nice to work with because you can just scrape it back into the bowl and do it again when you’re learning.  The biggest piece of advice I can offer is that you don’t have to pipe directly onto your cake.  I piped the flowers into parchment paper and then froze them.  Then I could arrange them on the cakes just like I was making a flower arrangement, and fill in the gaps by piping some leaves on.

So that’s basically what went into the cakes.  I’m my own worst critic so of course I can see all the things I wish I’d done different, but everyone else seemed to love them.  

[sinbinsidney]

Nursey Week Prompt #5 - Muse/Tomorrow.

“Nurse, if you move again, I will stab you with a paint scraper,” Lardo snaps out, not looking up from her canvas. She scratches her thumbnail over an imperfection in the white expanse in front of her, flicking off the offending fleck.

Nursey sniffs from across the room, muttering to himself.

“What was that?” Lardo says, looking up at him sharply.

“Nothing, Lards! Nothing at all.” He’s quiet for another few seconds. “My nose itches.” Lardo drops her head down to her chest and lets out a long-suffering sigh. She tosses her pencil into the wells at the bottom of her easel and circles her easel.

“Don’t. Move.” She chides him. Carefully, she reaches out and scratches gently along the bridge of Nursey’s nose.

“Yessss, thank you,” he sighs out, wrinkling the tip of it as Lardo rolls her eyes.

“Good?”

“Chyeah, much better.”

Lardo gets back to her station, pulling a second pencil out from behind her ear as she goes. Turning back to Nursey, she sharpens her gaze and studies him.

He’s carefully posed in the windowsill, despite the casual lean of his body. His left shoulder is pressed against the glass, left knee lifted up even as his right leg stretches out long and lean in front of him. Elbow propped up on his knee, his arm bends back on itself so he can rest his fingers on his stubbled jaw, knuckles catching the early afternoon light as it streams through the windows. Nursey’s back is up against the brick of the windowsill, deep blue of his hoodie contrasting with the warm colors behind him.

His face is entirely relaxed as he gazes serenely out the window, lips parted slightly and eyes lazily half-lidded. The sun is at just the angle to turn the normal mossy green of his gaze into a fiery emerald, thick eyelashes lit up golden bright, even as the shadows on the far side of his face emphasize the cut of his cheekbones. A few stray curls peek out of his beanie where it’s tugged easily on over his head.

The combination of his unshaven jaw, slightly rumpled t-shirt, and sleepy expression makes him look irresistibly comfortable, entirely too soft and relaxed for his own good. Lardo only has herself to blame for the squishy feelings that are squirming about in her chest, really, since she was the one who posed him in prime cuddling position. She had strolled into Founders, looking for a book on Bernini, when she noticed one Derek Nurse sprawled out on one of the couches near the East Wing. Instant inspiration.

Without a word, she had marched over, pulled him up by the ear, and dragged him over to Kotter. Nursey had complained, of course, saying something or other about some reading he had to do but had shut up quickly once Lardo had given him a short explanation.

“You’re a muse, Nursey. Hush up and enjoy it, it’s not often I get struck like this! Help me out, man, come on.”

“A muse?” He had questioned, eyes wide, blinking quickly. “Oh. I…okay. Yeah, sure.”

“Atta boy! Now, hop to it, into the window with you. No, not like that. Or that. Oh my god, stop.”

Bitty is bustling about the kitchen, gathering together some stray ingredients from their various resting places around the countertops. This is not an unusual occurrence, of course, given Bitty’s…affinity for baking. However, the scene gets a little more unusual when the kitchen’s other occupant is taken into account.

Nursey is stationed at the kitchen table, smashing the hell out of some Oreo cookies. Nursey isn’t allowed to help in the kitchen, really, not after the felonious things he had done to one of Bitty’s poor oven mats. (Nursey still insists the thing would have worked just fine, but Bitty had taken one look at the gaping holes in it and had tossed it right out the window. Literally. It’s still caught in the branches of the bush right outside the kitchen.)

“Is this good, Bits?” He asks, holding up the bag for Bitty’s examination. Bitty comes over and pokes at the bag, squinting slightly.

“Hmm…maybe a little more. There’s a few stubborn ones in there,” he hums. Nursey nods and shakes the bag a little before he smacks it with the flat end of a wooden spoon, smashing up the cookies inside for the next few minutes. Bitty melts the butter he needs in the microwave and washes out the spring-form pan he has in his hands before returning to Nursey’s side.

“Alright, toss ‘em in,” he says, gesturing at the pan. Nursey dutifully pours the fine crumbs out of the bag and onto the bottom, adding in the butter a few beats later. Bitty gives it all a stir, mixing it until the whole thing looks a bit like wet sand, which, not that appealing. He presses the mix down into the shape of a crust, Nursey joining in as he realizes the end game. Once they’ve got that patted down, Bitty pops the pan into the oven for a quick bake as the two of them settle in to make the filling.

“Now, normally, I’d use fresh mint to infuse this cream, but,” Bitty wrinkles his nose. “It’s not like y’all have much in the way of good herbs here in the middle of winter. We’ll just have to make do with mint extract,” he sighs out. Nursey snorts.

“Snob,” he chirps.

“I have a refined palate, Mr. Nurse, thank you very much,” Bitty says loftily, turning his little button nose up in the air. Nursey grins at him and takes the eggs from his hands. Bitty sits down next to him and gets to work, whisking in the mint extract before he gets out the electric mixer and begins whipping up the cream.

Nursey, for his part, quietly starts working, separating the eggs with surprisingly practiced ease. Bitty shoots him a small smile, gently nudging his shoulder with his own.

“Hey, Bitty?” He asks, eyes still on the eggs. “Why’d you ask me to help you?” Bitty blinks.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You just…never have before, that’s all.”

“Well. Ain’t that an oversight on my part. Look at you crackin’ those eggs like a professional!” Bitty turns that sunshine smile on Nursey before he sobers up slightly. “I couldn’t very well make a pie without the very man who inspired it, now could I?” Nursey sits back in his chair, shoulders relaxing.

“Oh.”

“It’s a frozen pie, made with mint. You know, since you’re so ‘chill’ all the time,” Bitty says, taking the separated eggs from Nursey and standing up to head over to the stove, where a pan of water has just begun to boil. Nursey sits in silence for half a second before bursting into an ungracious guffaw, a laugh Bitty hasn’t heard from him before. Nursey’s leaning back in the chair, arm wrapped around his stomach as he grins over at Bitty, dimples etched deep into his cheeks, shadows made darker by his stubble.

“That’s hilarious,” he laughs. Bitty blushes, pink staining the tops of his cheeks. Nursey bounds out of the chair and over to Bitty, wrapping an arm around him in a side hug, pressing a light kiss to his golden hair. “I love it.”

Bitty swats a hand at Nursey’s stomach, thunking against solid muscle. He pokes Nursey in the side and keeps whisking the egg yolks and sugar as they cook to a custardy sort of liquid. He hands off the bowl to Nursey.

“Keep mixing that, would you?” he asks. “Five minutes should do it.” Nursey nods dutifully, still smiling.

About eight minutes later, they’ve got two bowls full of slightly cooked and whipped egg whites and yolks, cooled to room temperature. Nursey pulls out the chocolate cookie pie shell and the mint cream from the fridge and sets them on the counter near where Bitty is just finishing folding the egg whites into the yolks, a frown on concentration on his face as he avoids losing all the air they’ve whipped into them.

He hands Nursey the spatula with all the solemnity of a priest bestowing a baptism, eyes fixed on Nursey’s own.

“Take care of it,” he says seriously. Nursey nods and smothers a grin with a cough turned into his own shoulder. He lets a few drops of green food coloring sprinkle into the mix below he begins to fold in the whipped cream, creating a deliciously minty, wonderfully smooth pie filling.

The finished product is actually kind of a masterpiece, which surprises Nursey to no end. The soft mint green color is complemented by the pure white of whipped cream swirls and dark chocolate shavings sprinkled around the edge of the pie. It looks mouthwateringly good, and Nursey reaches out to take a taste of it with his finger.

He’s promptly whapped with a wooden spoon Bitty pulled out of nowhere, finger stinging as he recoils it.

“It’s not done yet!” Bitty chides. “It has to cool first.”

“For how long?!”

“Six hours, so we’ll just leave it overnight.”

“Overnight?!?”

“Mr. Nurse, a good pie is never rushed.” Nursey groans and whimpers as Bitty smoothly pops the pie into the freezer, shutting it away from the evening light.

“But it’s my pie…” Bitty pats him on the shoulder consolingly.

“Tomorrow, honey. Tomorrow.”

“Eyes like sparrows, flashing bright. Hair like wildflowers, dancing sprites. Skin like bellsong, sweet and clear. Derek Nurse, our poet dear.”

Nursey winces as Betsy sits back down to polite, scattered snapping from around the room. That one was…a little rough, to say the least. His professor smiles at Betsy and gestures to the next person in their little circle.

“What have you written about Derek, Ben?” She asks. Nursey ducks his head and fiddles slightly with the edge of his notebook, an abnormally nervous tick. He guiltily tunes out Ben’s introduction to the poem.

He is not a fan of this assignment. This little group had each written a poem with Derek as the muse. And as much as Nursey doesn’t mind attention, normally, all of this scrutiny on him through the whole class is a little uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat and pays attention as Ben clears his throat, standing up.

Nursey forces himself not to run out of the classroom the minute Professor Anders says they can go, calmly packing up his things instead of bolting. He pointedly meets his classmates’ eyes and offers small talk, light and uncomplicated, but internally he just wants to curl up under a blanket and hide for a while.

When he gets out of class, he sees Dex leaning against one of the half-walls at the base of the steps, eyes focused on his phone as he texts someone. Nursey feels a rush of relief and hurries down, careful not to slip on the snow that’s drifted over the edges.

“Dex,” he says as he reaches him, a quiet urgency in his voice. Dex’s head snaps up to meet his gaze and he straightens up immediately, already frowning.

“Hey, what happened? Are you okay? You look exhausted.” Dex takes a step forward, and Nursey just–

He sinks into Dex’s arms, feeling them automatically wrap around him, coat rustling as Dex pulls him close. Nursey closes his eyes and presses his face into the join of Dex’s neck and shoulder, skin slightly cold where his scarf doesn’t cover.

“Can we just head back to your dorm?” Nursey asks, turning his head slightly to lay it on Dex’s shoulder. “It’s closer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course, baby,” Dex answers quietly, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He only uses the pet names in these private moments, caught and kept between the two of them. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Nursey smiles tiredly into Dex’s coat and squeezes his waist.

“I know you will.”

Dex presses a kiss to his head, eyes still worried when he pulls back to lead Nursey down the snowy sidewalk. He slips a gloved hand into Nursey’s own and tucks them both inside his pocket, shoulder brushing closely as he presses into the contact. Nursey breathes out and watches as the cloud rolls away into the sky, squeezing Dex’s hand where it’s warm in his.

He’ll be alright.

#WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY?? THIS IS LATE? #haha what is time anyway #nurseyweek #this was supposed to a five and one and yet #here we have a three and zero of derek nurse being a muse #writing #derek nurse #will poindexter #eric bittle #lardo duan #nurseydex #dexnursey #nurseydex ficlet #omgcp fanfic #omgcheckplease

[turkeyfeet8-blog]

Water Lily Pie

I was kind of feeling like baking something today, but was really unsure as to what it was I actually wanted to bake.  I went into my studio/office to look through my books and see if I might find something which caught my eye. 

Very early on in my blogging days I made friends with a fellow blogger named Susan Bellah Dahlem.  She has/had a blog called Not Quite June Cleaver.  I am pretty sure it was the June Cleaver tag which attracted me to the blog because I am a lover of anything June Cleaver-ee, June having been my ideal wife/mother when I was growing up.  Even someone who considered themselves to not be quite June was very appealing to me.  Susan and I connected and somehow became friends and have remained friends to this day.

A number of years back she published this Pie cookbook. Not Quite June Cleaver Bakes a Pie.  It is filled with everything to do with pie.  Crusts, fillings, hints tips, family favourites, recipes with a history,  tarts, resources, etc. It caught my eye this morning . . .  I suddenly I fancied pie, and when I was ruffling through it looking for a recipe, the Water Lily Pie really caught my interest.

It sounded simple and unusual  . . .  easy to execute, and I happened to have everything in the house to make it.  I bet you do too.

It really only takes a few ingredients.  Eggs.  Sugar.  Butter, and some flavourings (almond and vanilla).  Oh yes and some cream of tartar.

It was very simple to put together.  You just separate the eggs, whip sugar into both the whites and the yolks . . . 

The whites get whipped into a stiff meringue with half the sugar  . . .  and the yolks get whipped until light, with the other half of the sugar, and then you add butter and flavourings to them.

The white meringue forms a type of crust . . .  almost like a Pavlova  . . . 

Golden and crisp on the outside and marshmallow-like inside  . . .

The yolks beaten with the flavourings and butter get poured into the centre of the whites prior to baking and they create an almost "Butter-tart" type of filling   . . .

I don't know about you, but I totally adore butter tarts  . . .  

When it came out of the oven I wasn't quite sure if I had done everything right.  I have never seen a Water Lily Pie before  . . . but then I looked up water lilies and found this image and it looked kind of like the pie turned out looking like, so I figure I got it just right.

It is fabulously delicious . . .  I think this is one of the nicest desserts I have baked this year. 

And yes, I only meant to try one little bite  . . .  but after one bite, I couldn't help myself.  I ate the whole piece of pie.

It really was THAT good . . . . I just kept digging my fork into it and before I knew it, the piece was gone, gone gone  . . . 

I had to cut another piece for Todd  . . . .

and now I am thinking that this pie is far too dangerous for me to keep around for very long  . . .

Too, too, too dangerous.  I better invite someone over to help us eat the rest.

Water Lily Pie

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Yield: makes 1 nine inch pie

Author: Marie Rayner

A deliciously unusual pie recipe that I got from  a book written by my good friend Susan Dahlem. It is maybe not the most attractive pie, but what it lacks in looks, it more than makes up for in taste! You are going to love LOVE this!

ingredients:

3 large free range eggs, separated

190g granulated sugar, separated (1 cup)

115g butter (1/2 cup) at room temperature

1/2 tsp almond extract

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 tsp cream of tartar

instructions:

Preheat your oven to 150*C/300*F/gas mark 2.9.  Butter a 9 inch pie dish and dust lightly with flour.  Set aside.

Separate your eggs, putting the whites in one (scrupulously clean) glass bowl and the yolks in another smaller bowl.  Add the cream of tartar to the whites and beat with an electric whisk until light and then continue to beat whilst adding half of the sugar (95g/1/2 cup) until very stiff peaks form.  Set aside.

Beat the butter along with both flavourings.  Beat the egg yolks until light, then continue to beat whilst adding the remaining sugar.  Beat in the butter mixture. Set aside.

Spread the egg white mixture into the prepared pie dish, spreading it to cover the bottom and up the sides of the dish and leaving a bit of a hollow  dip in the centre to about 1 inch of the sides all the way round.  Carefully pour/spread the egg yolk mixture into this hollow  area. 

Bake for 55 to 60 minutes until the crust/meringue is golden brown and the filling is set.  Allow to cool completely before serving.

Fresh fruit and berries go very well.

If you are looking for a simple and easy dessert pie that is sure to impress, don't look any further. This is the one!  It might be kind of ugly, but it makes up for its looks in flavour.  We enjoyed it with some sliced berries.  You can buy Susan's pie book on Amazon.  I highly recommend.  I have never baked a recipe from it that wasn't totally delicious.  I think you would like it too!

Source: https://theenglishkitchen.blogspot.com/2019/05/water-lily-pie.html

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Easy Croque-Madame (Ham and Grilled Cheese Sandwich with Fried Egg) Recipe

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Easy Croque-Madame (Ham and Grilled Cheese Sandwich with Fried Egg) Recipe

Ever had a Croque-Madame? This is a classic French ham and grilled cheese sandwich, topped with a fried egg! Great for an easy lunch or dinner.

Photography Credit: Sheryl Julian

If you go to France and never learn a word of the language, at the very least you should come home knowing the names of the two most popular cafe sandwiches: Croque Monsieur and Croque Madame.

These are both toasted sandwiches made with ham and cheese – “croque” roughly translates as “crunch” or “crunchy.” The difference between a Croque-Monsieur and a Croque-Madame is that the Madame is served with a fried egg on top. Supposedly the yolk surrounded by the rim of white resembles a woman’s hat!

The sandwich is traditionally topped with a béchamel sauce and then the fried egg, but I’ve stopped making them with béchamel. It’s fussy to make a béchamel (a roux-based cheese sauce) for an otherwise very simple sandwich, and I’ve found that an extra slice of cheese works just as well.

Gruyere is the classic cheese for this sandwich; buy it if you can find it. If not, go for another cheese that will melt easily, like Swiss, Emmental, Comté, or Jarlsberg. Also, pick a flavorful ham, like Black Forest.

I prefer thickly sliced white sandwich bread, which holds up well in the skillet. I like to spread the inside of the sandwiches with Dijon mustard and the outsides with mayonnaise. The mayo gives the sandwich an extra-rich flavor and added crispiness after frying.

Top with a sunny-side up egg and lunch is ready! This sandwich is best eaten with a fork.

Tips for Success

Spread the outside of the sandwich with mayo for extra flavor and crispiness.

A bacon press, grill press, or panini press (all names for the same thing) is handy here if you have one. It helps the sandwich cook evenly and develop a nice crust on the outside. If you don’t have one, just press the sandwich a few times with the flat of your spatula during cooking.

Serve this sandwich hot and eat it with a fork! It’s best with a runny egg on top, which creates a sauce for each bite.

Easy Croque-Madame (Ham and Grilled Cheese Sandwich with Fried Egg) Recipe

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Double – or triple! – this recipe for more servings.

Ingredients

2 slices sandwich bread, any favorite variety

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

2 thin slices Gruyere, or other firm, melting cheese (like Comté, Emmental, Jarlsberg), or enough cheese to cover the bread slices

2 thin slices deli ham, like Black Forest

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 1/2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoons olive oil

1 large egg

Pinch teaspoon salt

Pinch teaspoon black pepper

1 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme or parsley

Method

1 Make the sandwich: Spread both slices of bread with mayonnaise. Flip them over and spread the other side with mustard. Onto one slice of bread, layer a slice of cheese, the ham, and the other slice of cheese. Top with the other slice of bread, mustard-side down. (The mayonnaise sides should face out.)

2 Fry the sandwiches: Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat, then add the sandwich. If you have a bacon press, grill press, or panini press, set it on top to weight the sandwich down (otherwise, just press a few times with the flat of your spatula during cooking). Cook for 3 minutes, or until the bottom slice of bread is golden.

Carefully flip the sandwich in the skillet. Set the bacon press back on top (or press with the flat of your spatula), and cook another 3 minutes or until the underside is golden. Transfer to a plate.

3 Fry the egg sunny-side up: Wipe out the skillet. Heat the olive oil in the skillet over medium heat until the oil shimmers and flows easily. Add the egg and cook for 1 minute exactly. Cover the skillet and cook for another 30 to 60 seconds, or until all the whites are set. (A runny yolk is preferred for this sandwich, however cook the egg for longer if you prefer a more hard-cooked yolk.)

4 Serve: Slide the egg onto the top of the sandwich. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, along with thyme or parsley. Serve immediately.

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Sheryl Julian

Sheryl Julian is an award-winning writer, editor, and food stylist. She is the former food editor of The Boston Globe, co-author of The Way We Cook, and editor of The New Boston Globe Cookbook. Her food sections won Best Newspaper Food Coverage from the Association of Food Journalists in 2015.

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