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squishmallow36 · 2 years

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Baking: the Gathering

Part 2 of Sokeefitz: the Gathering. Part 1 here.

Written for day 2 of Sokeefitz week: family, hosted by the wondhirful @rainbow-frog-earrings and @gay-otlc

Also a big thank you to @uni-seahorse-572 for listening to my rambling about this fic

Word count: 1.6k

Tw: swearing, food, drug mention, death threat

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @stellar-lune @gaslight-gaetkeep-gayboss @kamikothe1and0lny @nyxpixels @florida-fruity-frog @poppinspop @uni-seahorse-572 @solreefs @never-mourn-the-good @rusted-phone-calls @when-wax-wings-melt @cotyledon-tomentosa @good-old-fashioned-lover-boy7 @dexter-dizzknees @abubble125 @blossomsxgalorex @callum-hunt-is-bisexual @callas-pancake-tree

On Ao3 or below the cut.

Sophie is reading fanfic on his imparter when he’s so rudely interrupted by someone knocking on his door.

He takes out his earbuds, blasting Linkin Park probably a bit too loud, and asks, “What can I do for you today?”

“I have a master plan and I need help,” answers Fitz’s voice. Now that doesn’t mean it isn’t Keefe. Because he can mimic and all that fun shit.

So Sophie is forced to get up and open his door, finding Fitz behind it. Unless it’s Keefe using appearance elixirs. There’s no real reason for Sophie to care though. He’s not sure why he is.

“You want to give me any details, or…?”

“So you remember how Keefe said she wanted payment in the form of cake for teaching us how to draw cake a couple of days ago?”

“I don’t think they were serious but go on,” Sophie replies. If all goes well, maybe he’ll get some of the leftover frosting.

“And you know how I like to bake so I was thinking maybe I could pay our debt. With cake.”

“And why do you need me?”

“Partially to make sure I don’t burn the kitchen down and mostly to keep an eye out for them. You’ll get paid in icing if you cooperate.”

“You should’ve started with that.”

“Alrighty then. You watch the door. I’ll get started.”

A few minutes and a preheating oven later, Fitz is measuring flour into the stand mixer he got a couple months ago and still uses every single time he has the chance. Which means it gets a lot of use.

“I really don’t get how you can do that,” Sophie comments.

“...what?”

“Like, how you can bake without destroying the house. Especially without a recipe,” he clarifies.

“It’s all stored in my head for easy reference, stuck there by my mother and your many demands for more fucking chocolate cake.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Yeah, sure it isn’t.” Fitz dumps in the two cups of flour and starts measuring sugar, stabbing it with a knife.

“What the Exile are you doing? I thought you had training with Grizel to get your anger out,” Sophie asks, caught off guard and a little scared. Although he won’t admit that.

“I do. But I also have to get rid of the little clumpules of sugar because it’d be a weird crunch and it’d mess with my proportions.”

“...alright. Just don’t hurt yourself.”

“It’s a butter knife. I couldn’t even if I tried.” He dumps in the sugar and starts measuring the cocoa powder.

Or, as Keefe likes to call it, chocolate cocaine.

“No,” Fitz says, looking at Sophie like he can read his mind. Which he can. He’s a telepath. This has been established.

Sophie glares at him. Fitz glares back.

He dumps in the cocoa powder and then starts singing to himself, “Baking soda, baking soda, baking soda, where the f--hah! Got you!”

“That’s baking powder, dumbass,” Sophie points out.

“I know. They’re interchangeable. As long as I remember the proper conversion rate, it’ll be fine.”

He adds two tablespoons of baking powder to the mixture.

Sophie remarks, “that’s a lot.”

“Well, it’s one teaspoon of soda to a tablespoon of powder, so, yeah, just a little,” Fitz replies, sprinkling in a pinch of salt before reaching for the espresso powder.

“Wait a minute! What are you doing with my life force?” exclaims Sophie, grabbing for the tin.

“It makes the cake more chocolatey. You’ll be fine. We have a gross of these in the pantry. And I only need a teaspoon.”

“Yeah, for, like, a week.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you don’t sleep.” Fitz wrestles it away from him, adding it to the flour mixture before turning on the mixer.

“Good for you. Just don’t take any more of my coffee if you wish to wake up in the morning.”

“Got it.” Fitz pours the milk into a measuring cup and just decides to start doing squats at the kitchen island.

“What the fuck are you doing now?”

“...Making sure it’s level?” Fitz dumps the milk into the mixer and starts measuring the oil.

“I should watch you bake more often.”

“Why? Do you have a problem with me using milk to bake a cake? Because I can only do so much, love.”

“No. It just accentuates your ass very nicely.”

Fitz sighs. “Why didn’t I expect that?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’re just an idiot.” Sophie kisses him, hands digging into his hair.

“Bastard.” He cracks an egg on the flat of the counter, and no matter how many times Sophie googles it, it still seems wrong.

“Don’t you dare touch me with your egg hands. Not again.”

“Well, now I might.” Fitz cracks a second egg, adding them both to the mixture before washing his hands. Then, he doesn’t even bother to measure a splash of vanilla, and when he puts it down, Sophie steals the bottle to smell it.

Fitz lets the mixer do its magic as he measures out a cup of hot water, which he slowly adds. “Love, do you mind spraying two nine inch round cake pans with cooking spray? I knew I was forgetting something.”

“If Keefe shows up while I’m distracted, it’s your fault,” Sophie answers as he digs through the cabinet, looking for the right pans.

“I know. Thanks.”

Sophie does as he’s instructed, although he does have a tendency to over-spray. Eh, it’ll be fine.

He holds the pan steady as Fitz pours in the batter, and for his effort he’s rewarded with the mixing attachment.

Fuck eggs and their salmonella. If that’s his fate he’s not even gonna be mad.

“How long in the oven?” Sophie asks.

“Thirty to thirty-five minutes. I could stand guard if you’d like to return to your cave.”

Sophie reaches up and ruffles Fitz’s hair. There is a non-zero chance he had chocolate cake batter on his hand.

And by non-zero he means, yeah, he just got chocolate in Fitz’s hair.

“Or I could keep talking to you. You’re cute today.”

Fitz blushes.

“Aw, is that all it takes to render you speechless?”

“Yes.” Fitz nods.

Sophie laughs, launching himself up using the counter to plant a forehead kiss on Fitz.

“You do know that one day sooner or later you’re going to hurt yourself doing that.”

“We have Elwin on speed dial. I’ll be fine.”

Fitz pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make a double batch of icing and if you hurt yourself while I’m making it, I’ll eat the leftovers in front of you.”

“You can’t handle that much sugar.”

“Don’t get hurt and I won’t have to try.” Fitz takes two sticks of butter out of the fridge and plunks them into a clean mixing bowl before adding a new paddle attachment because the cake batter one is still firmly in Sophie’s grasp before turning it on.

Gradually, he adds in total four cups of confectioner’s sugar which would be a lot if it was in any other house than this one and a splash of vanilla he managed to take from Sophie while he was distracted by the cake batter.

Four tablespoons of milk and a couple of minutes just standing around watching for Keefe later, the frosting is ready, but the cake is not.

Fitz is nice enough to let Sophie be the official taste tester, but, let’s face it, it’s buttercream frosting. It’s not like it’d be bad. There’s no such thing as bad frosting.

Normally, Fitz would’ve waited for the cake to be done baking before making frosting, but any spared second is helpful right now.

No one knows when Keefe will return. Least not Keefe himself.

When the oven beeps after its thirty minute timer, Fitz tests the cake via toothpick that comes out clean and lets it cool for a couple of minutes before transferring it to a wire rack and sticking it in the freezer to cool as fast as it can.

Ten long minutes later, the cake is probably still warm inside, but Fitz declares it good enough and starts frosting. First comes the leveling of the top which got a little dome-shaped in the oven before sticking a glob of frosting between the two layers to hold them together.

Sophie steals the trimmed-off crumbs while Fitz is focused on making the frosting even. It’s pretty damn good. Which is to be expected. It’s a chocolate cake. Not only that, it’s Fitz’s chocolate cake.

Then comes another glob of frosting on top, which is spread out and pushed off the sides. This requires a couple more globs of frosting when it turns out it isn’t enough.

Surface area is a bitch. And when you have two bisexual disasters in the same room, there’s no way they’re going to be able to do math.

Especially when math isn’t even covered in the Foxfire curriculum. So the Elves apparently just have to survive on four-function calculators unless they’re Dex.

Once Fitz is at least mostly happy with how it looks, Sophie is allowed to take the rest of the frosting back into his room triumphantly where he starts taking notes of how he might be able to do this for Fitz sometime in the future.

It will more than likely end in disaster. But, hey, if he’s aware of that fact, he’ll be more prepared for when he inevitably fucks it up.

#in the tags try to guess what my favorite line is #sokeefitz week 2022 #kotlc #sophie foster #fitz vacker #keefe sencen #sokeefitz

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socialbrat · 5 years

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How To Stop Giving A Sh!t About What Others Think Of You

It’s 2019. STILL.

You can quite literally be anything or whoever you want to be. The door is wide f!cking open.

So why do so many of us, myself included, still feel the need to please others? Why does the opinion of others have the potential to hit us like a ton of bricks? Why? WHY DO WE CARE SO MUCH? I don’t know about you but I’m 28 years old and still navigating through so many different aspects of life. In a society where we are pressured to constantly feel like we should have it all together, it’s hard not to listen to the voice inside our head that whispers but what will others think?

Depending on the person you ask, I think it would be fair to say that you would receive a variety of different responses. Some people are born people pleasers, while others focus too much on outside opinions due to self-consciousness. Then, you have the people on the opposite end of the spectrum. Those that seem to be oozing of confidence and unbreakable thick skin. How does one find balance in between all of that?!

I can’t say that I’m in a point in my life that I give zero fucks because I think caring is powerful. Actually, if we are being honest, I give a lot of fucks. But only about the things and people that bring and or add value and purpose to my life. I believe that we should guard our time, energy, and love for those things, places and people that sprinkle magic in our lives.

If you’re constantly caught up in caring too much and your sensitive heart is getting hurt every 12 seconds, here are a few tips from personal experience that have thickened my skin and helped to prioritize my focus.

shake it like a polaroid picture...

We’ve all heard the saying so repeat after me, take it with a grain of salt. Imagine if we took every single word that was ever directed towards us to heart. WOW – that would be an awful way to spend our precious time on this earth. With endless opinions, ideology’s and judgements swirling around in the world, it can be so easy to get instantly weighed down by words from another’s mouth. It can be hard to deflect opinions and judgements of others but when you sit down to tend to your wound, know that their words are a reflection of that person’s experiences and lifestyle and not necessarily a direct reflection of you. So, shake it like a salt shaker and move on with your day.

preach!!!

Say it louder for the kids in the back! Speaking your truth is one of the most powerful things you can do. Whether in discussions with friends, family or coworkers who voice a separate opinion then your own; don’t feel the need to back down. Gracefully and respectfully speak your mind just as they are doing. Showing others that you are unapologetically yourself will not only be a freeing feeling but will also make it known that you value your voice and the right to use it.

take a minute. you need to calm down.

Feeling lost within your own thoughts, most of the time, comes from a place of not being confident in your viewpoint or personal opinion. This is the prime opportunity to take a personal timeout. Sit down, take a deep breath and indulge in self-reflection until you recognize what aspects are most important to you and align with your values. Finding what makes you tick will make you feel secure in voicing your unique outlook.

keep it to yourself

Knowing the time and place to express certain opinions is key to social survival. Before you walk into a social setting, family dinner or work meeting – understanding your audience will get you farther than you may think. Unless you’re in the mood to stir shit up and walk into a space ready to word vomit and start arguments, I would suggest tapping into your audience before opening your mouth. Sometimes, it’s better to mind your own business then to step out of line if there is a potential serious consequence waiting for you on the other side.

Now I know that there is someone on the other side of the screen with smoke coming out of their ears thinking, I can’t believe she is telling me to dull my voice. If you know me well enough, you would know that is absolutely not what I’m saying. However, I do believe it takes a mature and smart person to recognize if their opinion is going to drop an unnecessary bomb or not.

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sunshinedreary · 5 years

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The Peanut Butter Sandwich

Once, in middle school, I saw my father make a peanut butter sandwich and I’ve never forgotten it.

Peanut butter is a critical food in my life, and always has been. I’m fond of saying that if I ever develop a peanut allergy I will be fucked beyond all comprehension because there’s a lot of peanut butter consumption happening here. Whenever I admit this fear, I shine it up with a layer of humor, but I am actually afraid of its potential to materialize. A woman I know and love ate peanut butter often for many years of her life and then stopped eating it for a spell, no reason in particular. When she started eating it again, she realized she had developed a peanut allergy and hasn’t eaten it since but told me with sorrowful eyes and a disappointed mouth that she misses it every day. This tale radiates Edgar Allan Poe levels of foreshadowing and horror for me, despite the fact that it is delivered by a tall slip of a garden-goddess whose short gray hair sparkles and whose eyes shine with love and positivity on the grayest day. I cannot break up with peanut butter; ours is a relationship that has existed for a very long time.

Peanut butter is an Everything Staple for those of us who don’t [YET] have a [MAYBE? JESUS CHRIST, MAYBE?] peanut allergy. Part of why I eat it so much probably stems from the fact that I grew up with a single mother who lived in a constant state of obsession over what she ate, and by extension, what I ate. Before you get mad at her, let me assure you that there was no shaming going on, no judgement. While it was impossible not to personally imprint the world’s view of people who don’t have tiny figures, my mother approached food almost empirically, like she was a food scientist pulling apart the complex chemistry of nourishment to decipher the reasons why things that tasted so good could attach to her thighs and belly and then turn from flesh into an emotional burden of guilt and self-scrutiny. I like to say I am making up for lost time with long-lost food loves from my childhood and the picky first quarter of my life, peanut butter lives in that forbidden pantry for me along with garlic, sour cream, and sugar cereals. Look, I don’t write sonnets and poetic love couplets about garlic as a result of being given a stepfather who loathes its very existence, YOU DO.

Anyway, my mother never made me feel bad about myself and how I looked, she always encouraged and loved me. But her intense focus on the food she ate sort of rubbed off on me and stigmatized certain foods that I ate. Sometimes it was a direct attack: peanut butter was in the cross-hairs, probably because I always wanted it. I’d happily eaten regular Jif during all of my early years and then somewhere around the time I turned eight, she became convinced that peanut butter was going to make us both sick and give us cancer. She’d already had breast cancer, but was understandably concerned about staying in remission, so the conventional wisdom at that time was to worship at the shitty altar of low-fat foods. From that moment on, my life was a guessing game of When Is Peanut Butter Evil And When Is It A Friend? My mother wavered between ostracizing the delicious, sugary, and fatty foods we liked and determinedly choosing the reduced fat EVERYTHING. There was no constant, but certain food items were more demonized than others. To whit, I still feel guilty as a 38-year-old adult looking at sugar cereals in the grocery store. I feel like she knows. And she doesn’t like it.

Reduced fat Jif, by the way, is like a thick, congealed, freakish science experiment that’s gone wrong: the sugar and the peanuts stopped emulsifying at the exact moment when they were destined to be at their most disgusting states, and just before it all hardened up, someone stirred in a healthy dollop of earwax. Sorry for that.

I just want to be clear that regular Jif is excellent (and the only peanut butter to use in baking). I like the Crunchy Jif too, but if we are going with the maximum awesome for crunchy peanut butters, I err on the side of Skippy Extra Crunchy, because: yes. If you want to know about natural peanut butters, I will always pick crunchy natural peanut butter, and it’s got to be Crazy Richard’s or Teddy for me. When they add salt to natural peanut butter, it’s a food crime. Come at me.

You begin to see that my relationship with peanut butter is not unlike a great romance (or a Shakespearean comedy where I am Falstaff, but with peanut butter instead of spirits), fraught with ups and downs. Allow me to complicate it a little more:

Every time I pull out a butter knife and use it to slowly and carefully spread whatever type of peanut butter I happen to want at that moment on whatever type of bread I happen to have at that moment, carefully…out to the edges…I think of my father, not my mother. Why? You want to know why. I just wasted a shitload of your time on a peanut butter soliloquy that orbited my mother’s decades-long audit of a nut butter, not discussing the fact that my dad is an actual asshole who ruined peanut butter sandwiches for me over the course of perhaps 27 years of my life.

Here is the plain truth: for all of my mother’s food obsessions, reduced fat Snackwell cookies one day and Saralee pound cake, Mrs. Richardson’s fudge sauce, and vanilla ice cream the next, the confusion she created only manifested with food items, not with WHO I WAS or WHAT I LOOKED LIKE. My father used food as a weapon to shame me into whatever it was he thought I should be (I still don’t know what that is, by the way). My confusion is compounded because I couldn’t deny my paternal genes if I wanted to: we are all short, thick, and would have made excellent peasants back in the dark ages. What I’m saying none too bluntly is that not a one of us are pulling any awards for shapely figures or gorgeous looks. Middle of the road in all ways physical.

My parents divorced when I was three and my father had custody every other weekend (I was not a fan of this). He eventually remarried, conveniently, the weekend before my mother got remarried, in the same month of the same year. Every other weekend, my father and stepmother would deride and scold me for what I ordered if we went out to dinner; they would stare at every bite I took, and control the food in the house so I never ate without them knowing what and how much. My stepsister was tall and thin, whereas I am rather shaped like a frostycone, so I suspect that she did not have the same rules imposed on her when I was not around. I would ask for snacks and they would say no. They did everything but lock the pantry. We were allowed dinner on Friday night and then one lunch item on Saturday before dinner. I was restricted. My stepsister ate what she wanted, when she wanted, and would quietly slip away from time to time. We know why.

My mother bought me a super heinously ugly sweater at The Gap once when I was in eighth grade. It was thick and bulky, sprinkled with white and green pine trees and white horizontal stripes over a light gray background. If I’m honest, it was not real on-brand for The Gap, I am still shocked to this day that they sold such a shitbird design in their stores, so naturally I hated the shapeless wonder and refused to wear it until my mother guilted me into it (precisely twice). The second time I wore the sweater was the last time. It was a Sunday afternoon and almost time for my father to bring me home, which put me in a good mood. He and I ran into one another in the living room when I came downstairs for a drink of water. He hadn’t seen me yet that day, and I will qualify the WTF-ness of not having seen him all day by telling you that before he got remarried, the public library in town spent more time with me than he did. He and my stepmother did whatever they did downstairs (their bedroom and office were on the first floor) while my stepsister and I watched TV upstairs in her bedroom. My father’s face immediately flashed in anger and he grabbed the sleeve of my sweater, “What is this shit you’re wearing? Why do you always look so bad? Why can’t you ever wear clothes that LOOK GOOD?”

I just stared at him, gobsmacked, feeling much like a tennis ball that just got walloped by a Williams sister. Strangely, the first thing I wanted to say to defend myself was, “She bought it at The Gap, isn’t that good enough for you?”

Yeah kid, the class issues are the real heart of the issue here.

I never ate peanut butter sandwiches at my father’s house, even though they always had Old Pride wheat bread and Jif Creamy peanut butter. I remember because I saw my father make a peanut butter sandwich once. It was Saturday, between lunch and dinner. I was standing in the kitchen and my father pulled out the yellow plastic bag of Old Pride- the nutty wheat smell breezed out, little flecks of grain sewn into a soft pillow ready for its fate as a sandwich. The lid unscrewed from the Jif quietly and that immediate, powerful smell of peanut butter hit my hungry stomach. My father swirled the peanut butter across the bread, an inch thick. It seemed unthinkable to me and my eyes grew wide. An inch thick. Even when peanut butter was not on the bad list at my mother’s house, it was meant to be used sparingly; I never had full autonomy free from guilt when I made my peanut butter sandwiches. An inch thick. I think my father noticed my face because he hastily layered the top piece of bread on his completed sandwich and gave me a look that was half angry, half embarrassed before removing all traces of food and walking down the hall to his office. An inch thick. I will never forget it. I can still see the countertop, the bread, all that peanut butter- not for me. Made by someone who did nothing but diminish me in ways I still can’t reconcile.

I wish I could make a peanut butter sandwich without thinking of him, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying them. Luckily, he is only linked to the creation of the sandwich and not the relishing of its taste, texture, and smell. It’s these weird, nuanced moments that show me where he broke me. But there are strange, funny things I associate with my father as well. He calls long toenails “lunch hooks” and I will never know why, but it makes me laugh. He taught me the ideal way (in my opinion) to eat a muffin: slice it in half horizontally and butter the inside of each half. I still say, “Don’t let it get away from you” about staying on top of tasks and that is purely my father. I’m militant about notifying people when I receive things from them in the mail, because he told me it’s the right thing to do, AND IT IS. When he laughs, it’s rare, but it’s a deep belly laugh, and it’s nice because he only does that when it’s true. My father is not a sympathy laugher, he’s not here to make you feel good about anything. He’s worked hard to educate himself and gain upward mobility in his jobs, but he’s also been an asshole to a lot of people in his personal life. I just know he is not allowed to be an asshole about my motherfucking peanut butter sandwiches anymore.

Update 4/15/20: I haven’t thought about my father while making a peanut butter sandwich since I first wrote this. I’ll take the win.

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droewyn · 7 years

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Question Game!

I was tagged by @phlintandsteel!

rules:

1. answer the questions given by the person who tagged you

2. write 10 questions of your own and tag 10 people

1. Have you ever truly hated another human being?

Yes. My stepmom’s son. She raised him as a single mom, and while she didn’t have much of anything, she gave it all to him. He wanted to go to broadcasting school to be a radio DJ. She was terrified that he’d fail, but supported him anyway, and when he didn’t fail, she was his biggest fan. Then he met and married Old Southern Money, and became ashamed of his roots. He cut off all contact with her -- told her via fucking certified mail that she didn’t “do enough” for him and he wanted nothing more to do with her. Periodically he calls just to fuck with her brain, saying that he wants to talk, only to go off on her and belittle her. When his first kid was born, he invited her and my dad to the baptism, and when they flew down to New Orleans on their own dime he bitched her out and told her he didn’t want her there. Like he'd never intended for her to attend, he just wanted to humiliate her in person. We had her on suicide watch for weeks after that little trick. I've actually wondered if driving her to suicide is his goal. He is staggeringly cruel, an absolute waste of humanity, and the world would be so much better off without him in it. At least then my stepmom could have some goddamn closure and stop getting tortured every six months. I hope his wife has a billion affairs, gives him crotch rot, and leaves him for the mailman. I hope his kids grow up to break his heart. I’d also really like to kick his balls into his throat. Repeatedly.

... sorry. You asked. :/

2. How do YOU pronounce caramel?

CARE-uh-mel.

3. What was your first fandom?

Um. Okay, so, like. I'm old. Tumblr OldTM, but still. So I'm kind of not sure how to answer this question.

The first thing I went absolutely nuts over was My Little Pony. I was four, and there were these pastel unicorns and I. Had. To have. Them all.

The first thing I made up stories in my head about was Rainbow Brite.

The first thing I had headcanon for was She-Ra, Princess of Power. When the DVDs came out and I rewatched the series as an adult, I was genuinely shocked that the episode where Adora had to earn everyone's trust because hello, there's usually a step between "I've decided to quit being the enemy's greatest general" and "I accept the position of leadership in your rebellion", didn't actually exist. I still "remember" it vividly, and I'm not entirely convinced that there wasn't some history rewriting or parallel universe involved.

The first fanfiction I wrote was for Final Fantasy I. I wrote a Save Our Princess! flyer for some spelling test or something in sixth grade.

My first actual online fandom was Sailor Moon. I had a 2400 baud modem, and the tiny, distorted, 300x400 video of the Japanese opening credits took two days to download. Fanfiction.net didn't exist yet, never mind AO3. We had WEBRINGS. It was barbaric.

4. Guys in high heels, yes or no?

Doesn't do anything for me, but then I'm demi, and my boy has never been into that. You do you and don't worry about what I think.

5. Did you go to college, and if so, was it worth it?

I dropped out as a sophomore, so no. It was not worth it. I'm making decent money as an entirely self-taught Salesforce admin.

6. What is your favorite type of AU?

Something that gives me an entirely new experience while staying true to the characters. I've loved me some A/B/O, and I've also been utterly revolted by A/B/O. Ditto for soulmates, fake relationships, pretty much all of it. It's all the writer and their storytelling for me, not a specific setting.

...

OKAY FINE GIVE ME ALL THE LEVERAGE YOI AU IN THE WORLD AND I WILL BE SO HAPPY THERE I SAID IT

7. Would you hide your orientation/stay in the closet to get ahead in your career (I guess I’m assuming since this is tumblr that we’re all queer here)?

I joined the workforce in the late 1990's. Of course I have been in the closet at various workplaces, though much of it was less being concerned about possible advancement or lack thereof and more not wanting to deal with being the freak in the triad relationship. These days I'm open about being queer with my coworkers, though I have not laid out any actual details to anyone. Except for the one adorable little baby gay who worried that I might find some people's behavior shocking if I went to Detroit Pride this year. Then I was all oh sweetie you think I'm vanilla that's so cute let me tell you exactly how wrong you are.

8. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn?

So I take about a quarter cup of olive oil, right? The regular stuff, not EVOO; EVOO can't take being heated without losing flavor so there's no point in spending the extra money for the sake of being fancy. I grind up some salt and pepper with a mortar and pestle until it's super fine and add it to the oil, stirring so the particles are evenly suspended throughout. Then I crush about 4-6 cloves of garlic and add them. Yes, cloves. More than that if they're small. Next, I turn the stove on to the popcorn sweet spot (just past the 7 line on my range) and add a single kernel of corn. When that pops, it’s time to add the rest of the popcorn, about a half cup. It has to be kept moving! I use one of those hand-cranked popcorn kettles that lets me continually stir; if I don't have that it's shaking the (lidded) pot like a savage and trying not to get burned by escaping steam. When the popcorn is done, it gets dumped in a very large bowl and sprinkled immediately with powdered parmesan cheese so that the remaining oil will allow the cheese to stick to the popcorn. Sometimes I add some fresh chives if I'm feeling precious.

That is my favorite popcorn, and it is the fucking bomb.

9. What character do you think deserved a better redemption arc (or to get one when they didn’t)?

Actually, I'm going to go back to my She-Ra headcanon from above. I know it was a child's cartoon from the 1980's. But even when I was a child I understood that some transgressions are just too big for "Whoops, sorry I was like brainwashed and stuff" to cut it. She needed trials, tribulations. She needed to earn her place. Earn the right for redemption. I'd love to see a take on the series that digs into that. (That and the Hordak/Adora relationship. Why the fuck did he raise her to be innocent when keeping her that way was so much trouble? Was she a trophy? Was she the one good thing in his life? If so, why did he make her fight for him? Did he ever care for her at all? These questions should keep her up at night. She should be torn between hatred and love for the father figure she thought she'd had. IT WOULD BE SO DELICIOUS)

10. What element would you choose if you could bend/control ONE.

Carbon. I'd basically have control over everything organic and RULE THE WORLD MUA HA HA HA HA

I’m tagging the following people (entirely voluntary, of course):

@mercury01, @minttytea, @doesitlooklikeineedanotherfandom, @silvercrystal1, @basedpandesal, @cinnamonviking, @spideypool-snarryalways, @planeoftheeclectic, @ihaveacrappyusername, and all of the porn bots.

My questions:

1. What would your ideal T-shirt slogan read?

2. What is your comfort food, activity, and/or piece of clothing, and why?

3. Which fandom are you the most proud to be part of? Which fandom are you ashamed of? They can be the same fandom.

4. Name one thing about yourself that you like. This must be genuine. NO SIDESTEPPING, SELF-NEGGING, OR BACKHANDED SHIT. IF I CAN DO IT YOU CAN.

5. Do you have any traditions in your family that you’ve inherited and are happy to carry forward? Are there any traditions that you’d like to start yourself?

6. What are your pet(s) name(s)? If you don’t have a pet, what would you name your fantasy pet?

7. What of yours would you like archaeologists (alien or future humans; your choice) to dig up one day? Why?

8. You’ve done all of those “What’s your porn/writer/Star Wars/etc name” memes. We all have. What’s your favorite one?

9. What song summarizes you?

10. What’s your superpower? Will you be a hero or a villain?

BONUS QUESTION BECAUSE MY HUSBAND WANTS TO CONTRIBUTE BUT IS A SMARTASS:

11. If Richard the Lionheart had actually taken his shit seriously, do you think he could have spanked Saladin, or did existing socioeconomic and political conditions doom his Crusade to failure?

#question game #phlintandsteel #tumblr game #original content #i kind of want to answer my own questions now #personal stuff #question 1 basically sums up why i'm a slytherin btw #i try to be kind #but nice is situational #and DO NOT FUCK WITH MY TRIBE

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bitchninthekitchnnn · 7 years

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Women Puddin’ Other Women Down

I’m going to bitch about a topic that’s really been grinding my gears lately: women putting other women down. But before I get started, I wanted to talk about the Women’s March that happened last weekend on Saturday January 21st.

IT. WAS. AWESOME.

I participated in the Denver, Colorado march. My roommates and I got up at the crack of dawn, drove to Denver (we live in Boulder) and marched from morning ‘til afternoon.

Everything about the day was exhilarating. We chose to drive to Denver because the line for the RTD bus at the Boulder station wrapped around the block (this was at 7:15AM, hours before the march was supposed to start). As we drove down route 36, we saw floods of people along each bus stop, faces and signs bright from the reflection of the pink sunrise.

After we found a parking spot in Denver, we stopped for a caffeine fix at Pablo’s Coffee. We waited in line for 40 minutes with dozens of other marchers to find that our coffee and breakfast treats had been covered for all participating in the march. As we made our way to the capital, the streets were flooded with caring, loving, progressive, strong people, all eager to hit the streets.

The morning had a slow start. We were at a standstill for about 2 hours. The reason being: there were SO. MANY. PEOPLE. I was delightfully surprised by the outcome, and the amount of men in the crowds! There were people of all different races, ages, sexual orientations and disabilities, out in Denver on a chilly morning making our voices heard.

The city of Denver expected 40,000 people to come through. As of right now, it’s estimated somewhere around 200,000. We showed up. We made a difference. We sprawled through city, together, peacefully, and proudly. For the first time since election night, I’ve felt hopeful.

Now let’s get down to bitchin’.

Women putting other people down. There are sooooo many examples of this, but here’s a few to get started:

-Women talking shit about another woman's sexual history (IE: She has threesomes on the reg. She must not respect herself.)

-Women outwardly questioning another’s makeup and wardrobe choices (IE: You’re wearing that?)

-Women insulting another female for their life choices (IE: making stay at home moms feel like they’re not politically woke because they chose be at home with their families).

-Women commenting on your breakfast choices (IE: wow, that is A LOT of bacon).

-Women pointing out social interactions (IE: She’s always looking for attention. I feel bad for her).

The list goes on. Why do we do this?

Throughout high school, my weight fluctuated frequently. I had an extra 30-40 pounds on me during my freshman and sophomore year. Stress and an overwhelming sense of low self worth made me overeat. By the end of junior year I was tired of hating my body, and started “dieting” (aka starving myself) to feel pretty. And hey, it worked! Boys started looking at me in ways I wasn’t used to, friends complimented me and encouraged me to “keep it up!”

I was grossly thin. I was always tired. I was obsessed with running for miles, and then stepping onto my bathroom scale right afterwards to see how much weight I’d lost during the run. Yeah. It was messed up.

Enter grandma. She lived next door to me when I was growing up, and was present for most of my childhood. She was a firecracker of a woman who I loved very much. She was also incredibly shallow. To be fair, she grew up during a time where your dress size determined your entire self worth. That mindset was certainly perpetuated onto all of her daughters, and granddaughters.

During the time I was losing weight, she always had a positive comment, and, like my friends, encouraged me to “keep it up!” I would walk over her house after school, you know, for some standard gram time. She greeted me at the door with a full body scan, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I knew I looked up to her standards with the first words that came out of her mouth. If I was looking slim, she would say “Carla, you look so beautiful!” as she held the screen door open. If I had a couple extra pounds (which I swear to god, she could pick up on like a hawk) she would grimace and say, “Hello.” The interaction started to stress me out so much that I stopped visiting her solo. I’d only cross the yard when my sister, mom, dad or boyfriend at the time could be the buffer. And go through the door first.

Why do women do this to each other? NY Times puts it eloquently:

We aren’t competing with other women, ultimately, but with ourselves — with how we think of ourselves. For many of us, we look at other women and see, instead, a version of ourselves that is better, prettier, smarter, something more. We don’t see the other woman at all.

(https://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/01/opinion/sunday/why-women-compete-with-each-other.html)

Women have it ROUGH. Like so many other minorities, we’ve have to fight for every single right we have. Life would be a little sweeter if us ladies stopped comparing, judging, belittling each other for our choices. Next time you’re thinking about making a comment that’s meant to knock a woman down a peg, think about where the root of that comment is coming from, and work on those insecurities instead.

NOW LET’S GET TO THE KITCHN’.

Picking Women Up, Not Puddin’ Them Down

Lavender Lemon Pudding with Honey Poached Pears and Candied Lemons

OG recipe from Cafe Johnsonia: http://cafejohnsonia.com/2013/10/lavender-panna-cotta-honey-poached-pears.html

Total time: 1 hour 5 mins // Serves: 6-8

Alright, technically this a recipe for *panna cotta,* but they’re essentially the same thing. Pudding feels less intimidating and in all truth I just couldn’t let go of the name.

This recipe is easy, it just takes time. There’s just a lot of steps, and a good amount of throwin’ shit together. It’s not that bad, I promise!

For lavender lemon pudding:

3 Tablespoons cold water

one package gelatin

1¾ cups heavy cream

1¼ cups whole milk

½ cup sugar

1 teaspoon lavender buds

1 teaspoon vanilla extract (or ½ vanilla bean, scraped)

For honey poached pears:

3 slightly under-ripe pears, cored and peeled, cut into quarters

½ cup water

¼ cup honey

Juice of 1 large lemon

Peel of one large lemon cut into strips (I used a vegetable peeler to create long strips and cut them into thinner strips with a sharp knife)

1 teaspoon lavender buds

1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise down the middle

pinch sea salt

For candied lemon peel:

Reserved poaching liquid, only pears removed

¼ cup granulated sugar or evaporated cane juice

For lavender lemon pudding:

Have ready 6-8 custard cups or ramekins. (You can lightly oil them if you plan on turning them out onto a plate, it helps them release better.) Place the ramekins in a 9- by 13-inch baking dish or on a rimmed baking sheet. Set aside.

Place the cold water in a small bowl and sprinkle the gelatin on top. Let soften for 5-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine heavy cream, milk, sugar, and lavender in a medium saucepan. Heat gently, stirring to dissolve sugar, until the mixture just comes to a boil. Remove from heat and add the softened gelatin. Place back on the stove and heat gently until the gelatin is completely dissolved, about 2-3 minutes.

Stir in the vanilla and strain through a fine mesh sieve into a large measuring cup with a spout. Pour about ½ cup of the mixture into the ramekins. (There might be some leftover depending on the size of the ramekins.) Let stand until cooled to room temperature, then cover the ramekins with plastic wrap and place in the fridge for several hours to chill until set.

For honey poached pears:

Place the pears, water, honey, lemon juice and peel. lavender and vanilla bean in a small sauce pan Bring to a simmer and cook until pears are just tender, stirring occasionally and making sure the bottom doesn't burn. (If it does start to burn, the heat is way too high. It should just barely simmer.)

The pears will probably need between 30-45 minutes to properly poach. Check for doneness by inserting the tip of a sharp knife into one of the pears. If it goes in easily, then the pears are done. If not, cook for a few more minutes. Remove the pears and place them in a bowl to cool. Reserve the poaching liquid and other ingredients.

For the candied lemon peel:

Bring the poaching liquid to a boil and then lower the heat a bit and continue cooking until the liquid reduces and become syrupy, an additional 15 minutes or so. Remove the lemon peel from the syrup, letting as much of the syrup drip back into the pan as possible.

Reserve the remaining syrup to use as a sauce when serving. Place the sugar in a shallow bowl and add the lemon peel to the bowl and roll until coated. Set the zest aside to finish cooling. You may need to roll them in the sugar several times. Set them aside until serving time.

To serve:

Either serve the pudding still in the ramekin or carefully loosen it from the mold with a thin knife and turn upside down on a plate. Top with 3-4 pear slices and drizzle with some of the syrup and top with a few strips of candied lemon peel.

Note from the “editor”:

Carla is one of the best people. She’s got it all going on. She has the most beautifully curated Instagram, the best fucking attitude I could ever hope to steal for myself. Follow her if you feel like you need some feel good posts in your social media. I love her. She’s the best.

As a woman, life is already hard. We should spend more time lifting each other up rather than puddin’ each other down just to feel a little more ahead. This goes for everything. The basic lesson in intersectional feminism really. We all can’t get ahead if everyone is pushing everyone else down. It just doesn’t work like that. Getting your own self image and worth to a good point is so damn hard anyway. Ugh. Anyway, Carla, youre beautiful. I love your mind. Reader, You’re beautiful, and I love you for being here.

If you want to write for this blog, just let me know! There are submission guidelines HERE Bitch it to me ladies.

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