#pouring hominy in the eye...

[archivistbot]

hey, elias, how literally did you mean that "i'm going to kill you", on a scale from 0 to brutal pipe murder?

ELIAS:  Uh… well, that was, that was a joke.

ELIAS:  Well, that’s the thing, you know. The scale isn’t really in, but you use it as a guideline.

0 = handcuffs, 1 = hot iron, 2 = pouring hominy in the eye, 3 = […] You get the idea.

[an-annyeoing-writer]

Chanyeøl x Reader: homini lupus.

Word count: ~3,2 k

Genre: dark, supernatural

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood and injury

I’m actually thinking of writing this for some other members. There are some minor events that weren’t explained and I’d like to refer to them in other fics. We’ll see!

Homo homini lupus est.

You didn’t know how long you spent in the same position. Your back ached, you were cold, and the migraine wouldn’t leave you in the last few hours at least, ever since you lost the remaining willingness to move. You tried to walk around the small space at least once in a while to keep your body warmer, and yourself – saner. But it didn’t work, and you felt hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. 

The space was small, but you knew it wasn’t meant to be a prison; more like a pantry, considering shelves along the walls, although empty. 

Sometimes, you heard noises. People walked right behind the locked door, ignoring that you sat there in complete darkness, starving, unable to cry for help any longer. You wished someone would come here just to keep you company, or at least tell you what was going on. But no one did – you were kept here like an animal hunted down, caught and then kept alive until it’d be needed dead. Although it’d at least be given water and food to stay healthy until its time came, and you didn’t have even that much. 

You thought you’d pass out when the doorknob moved slightly; you couldn’t see it, but you heard the faint noise and your face snapped up.

“Let me out” you whispered; your throat was dry, your voice hoarse, as if it didn’t belong to you at all. But you stumbled to your feet, pushing forward and falling against the door next moment, slamming your weak fists against the wood even as the noises on the other side dulled out. You cried out incoherently.

And suddenly, something slammed against the door from the other side, making you jump back. You shook, barely standing on your own feet, as the lock was removed on the other side and the door opened, letting in light that blinded you in an instant.

“Why can’t you just keep quiet?” the voice spoke even before you saw the man in front of you clearly.

“I-I heard a sound…” you whimpered.

“I just tripped, don’t think too much. God, can’t you even be quiet for a second?” You kept quiet, though; you waited for your eyes to adjust, and finally, you made out the silhouette in front of you, a man with one hand still on the doorknob and the other holding onto his side. You didn’t see the exact colors yet, but there was a darker stain on the side of his face, one you confused with a shadow at first, but as you soon realized, wasn’t one. 

“Are you hurt?” you whispered.

He snorted. 

“Still stronger than you, no doubt. Stay where you fucking are.”

“I-I can help” you offered.

“I don’t think so, you can barely stand.” He moved to close the door back and, almost instantly, let out a groan, leaning against the door frame for support. You didn’t hesitate before reaching to him; anything to get out of here, no matter how dangerous the world outside could be with him around. 

His immediate reaction was to push you away and you landed on the cold ground, miraculously not letting out a pained sound. 

He stared at you for a short moment, as if rethinking his previous statement.

“Follow me. Don’t slack off. If you can stand up, that is.”

You didn’t know if you could. But the will to get out of this small space turned out way stronger than all the aches and fear gathered in your fragile body. So you ran after him, trying to remember at least some of the passing surroundings, but in the end, able only to walk behind the man who captured you, hoping that he won’t pass out in the middle of the hall – mainly because if anyone was to find you two like this, your explanations would be quite unreliable without his testimony.

Although maybe, just maybe, it’d give you a chance to escape? 

Probably only if no one else was in the house; you wondered how big the building was, but it seemed cozy, closer to a summer house than a mansion, so it shouldn’t be too big. You didn’t change the floor, but you saw some stairs in the distance. You moved into a cozy bedroom and the man motioned you to wait in the middle, walking to the door in the corner, which, as you saw from your perspective, was a bathroom. He came back soon with a small box – first aid kit. 

He threw the box at you, and you barely managed to grab it; at least these few minutes of stretching your bones helped a little with your migraine, and you didn’t feel as dead as before. In fact, literally the opposite – you felt a rush of adrenaline that urged you to move as the man sat on his bed and exhaled heavily. You looked at him more closely. Although he was holding his side earlier, there was no visible injures there. Maybe some bruises under the jacket, you thought.

The only one was on his face. Blood poured from under his closed eyelid, and it was a scary sight. There was a cut over the bridge of his nose too, but it didn’t look half as threatening. 

The man looked at you with his one, dark eye.

“What happened to you?” you asked. He must have calmed down by now, because he didn’t yell anymore, his posture didn’t look half as intimidating as before. He didn’t say a word as you moved a chair to sit next to the bed and open the first aid kit. You didn’t know, what to do. Shouldn’t he wash his face first?

“I was robbed” he announced.

“What kind of robbery leaves wounds like this?” you huffed.

“It wasn’t a robbery. I was stolen from” he clarified, although, in fact, it didn’t clarify much.

“What do you mean? What did they take?”

“Can’t you tell?” His one eye bored into you as the two of you stared at each other for a few moments.

“Oh.” Who’d do something like this… And what for? 

The man seemed amused.

“They’d gladly take you, too, if they knew you’re here.”

“Who?” 

You completely forgot about what you were here for, simply listening to him, first aid kit left on the mattress. 

“People who don’t like what we are.” This reply didn’t explain much. The man huffed. “You don’t need to know the details.”

“You just said they’re after me, too. Who are they? I need to know more.” You were focused on getting the information out of him. It was not an easy task, you had a feeling you were unlucky enough to meet the stubborn one. 

“It’s none of your business.” 

You huffed with annoyance, picking up a bandage roll from the box and throwing it at him. You stood up and started pacing around the room. As if your head wasn’t already overwhelmed, you had even more questions than before. Nothing had been cleared out, nothing at all. 

“Then why do you keep me here? It sounds like you couldn’t care less about my well-being, then why bother?”

“Don’t be mistaken” the man spoke louder. “I couldn’t care less about you, but I don’t want them getting any stronger. I won’t let them put their hands on you until they’re all dead.”

“How many is all, then?”

“Seven” he answered without hesitation. “Six of which I’m going to kill.”

“And the one?”

“If I kill him, I die, too.” The grin on his face made it clear that he was sincerely amused with making you even more confused than you already were. 

“I don’t understand” you admitted.

“You don’t need to. Just stay where you are, could you?” he shrugged. From the box, he took out some pills and took two, but it didn’t seem like he’d do anything about his eye. 

“What about your…?” you hesitated, briefly pointing at his head.

He shrugged.

“I’ll get a new one, no big deal.”

Just who was he? You had way too many questions. Your fear dissolved a little, especially after finding out he was not as hostile as he seemed at first; interest appeared instead. 

He looked up at you with his one eye and scrunched his nose. 

“You’re useless here. Go back to the pantry.”

You glanced at him, not too happy with the perspective.

“Can I use the bathroom at least?”

He shrugged.

“Do what you want. You’ll die if you try to get out, so in your own favor, don’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“We’re two hundreds miles from the nearest town, and it’s the middle of winter. We’re not gonna kill you, but it doesn’t mean we’re gonna care if you die. If you go, you’ll freeze to death or starve before they find you. So we won’t care.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Maybe. But we have enough of our own problems to worry about.”

“Can I get food?”

“Do what you want.”

So you did. Maybe it’d earn you a bit more chance to get information out of others who were here. Or maybe it’d just make it a bit more bearable, if you could live normally at least. 

You came to a conclusion that there’s nothing more humanizing than a warm shower.

* * *

You slept on the sofa in the living room of the house. It was a spacious building, as you discovered. A few rooms were locked and no one ever entered them – one of the men shared that they belonged to those who passed away. It scared you to realize that death was not something uncommon to them, but you didn’t dare to ask more questions; these rooms were unavailable to you either way, so you stayed in the living room, a place the inhabitants came to only on those rare evenings when all of them were here. Usually, only one or two were in the house to begin with and they busied themselves in their own rooms. There was six of them. And the one who stayed at home the most was Chanyeøl, with his head wrapped in bandages; he didn’t recover yet so he didn’t go out much. You wondered where they all went in the first place – if it was true and the closest town was hundreds of miles away, where were they going all the time?

Once, it became quite obvious. Sehůn came back home with a dead deer over his shoulder; the animal had no wounds so you worried, what if it was poisoned? Would it be safe to eat it? But the others didn’t question it, just prepared it, and that was the first time in a while you ate something warm and fresh. They didn’t really care that you took some, nor that you sat among them while eating. They never paid you much attention at all, but you didn’t mind – it allowed you to see them at ease, not so scary anymore, just a group of people, maybe not friends, but surely not enemies either, more of associates, living under the same roof. 

You saw them come back home tired and dirty, you saw them laugh at stupid jokes while looking as if they just took a bloodbath, you saw them complain about injures that were simply “annoying”, never “life-threatening” or even “dangerous”. 

And one day, you saw Baëkhyun sit next to Chanyeøl and gently take the bandage off his head.

“It looks good” he spoke. “Creepy as hell, though.”

“You should have gotten me a better one. Seriously.”

“I thought this one would suit you more. We can dig out the other one and exchange so that they match.” The sentence was probably the creepiest thing you’ve ever heard, but the man’s smile made it clear he was simply joking, in his own, twisted way that Chanyeøl seemed to reciprocate, because his lips curled into a grin too. 

They heard you shuffle in the door’s entry and both turned their heads towards you.

Chanyeøl’s bright blue eye stared at you with more intensity than the other, dark one you already knew. 

Baëkhyun was right. It was creepy as hell.

* * *

“Aren’t you getting too comfortable?” 

Chanyeøl sat by the kitchen table, elbow on the glass surface and chin resting on his palm; he seemed bored, so he watched you do the dishes after dinner. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, not even glancing back at him. 

“I could put you back in the pantry at any time and none of the guys would stand up for you. I could even kill you and they wouldn’t care. Why do you do this, then?”

“Do what?” You didn’t seem too bothered with his words. You started to get used to his threats. 

“Act like you live here.”

“Do I not?”

“You’re a hostage.”

“Thanks for letting me know” you replied sarcastically. 

You made barely one step before his hand was on your neck, pushing your face against the fridge. His grip was firm, but you didn’t dare to struggle, trying to ignore the way your entrails twisted in fear. You were starting to get used to it, you just needed more time. That’s what you told yourself. He wouldn’t kill you – you repeated it in your thoughts. He wouldn’t kill you, he doesn’t hate you. You’re useful, somehow.

“You seriously think that it’ll change anything?” He leaned down and let his voice turn quieter – the words he was about to speak were not for anyone else to hear. “There’s seven of them. If I kill the one, I die too. What, do you think, will happen, if I kill the others?”

The words started to sink in. All the domesticity and familiarity suddenly turned poisonous. Not even associates, you thought. Just means to reach his own goal. Did the others know? Should you warn them? Or were they all thinking the same way, working together only for now? Was this how the others passed away? Were they also not useful enough for their life to be more valuable than the death of those who were against them?

“B-but there’s only six of you” you noticed. Your voice quivered.

You felt his breath on your neck, his grip didn’t loosen.

“Do you want to know who’s the seventh? Do you, really?” 

Your body shook in fear, and you realized that you should have started fearing him much sooner than you allowed yourself to.

A smirk.

A push, forcing you onto your knees.

And then, silence. He was gone. 

You had to get out of here.

* * *

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Chën stared at you, amused. It was early spring already, the temperature wasn’t that bad. You picked up the warmest clothes you found, took food and everything else you considered useful. Chën stood in the door’s entry as you walked into the yard; he was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, not wearing anything special, yet not looking half as cold as you already were upon feeling the weather for the first time in ages.

“Chanyeøl said I can go if I want.”

“You’ll die.”

“Or survive.”

“Doubtful.”

“Worth the risk.”

“Is it?”

“I will either live or survive. If I stay here, I will only die.”

“Better later than sooner, though” he shrugged. 

But you didn’t feel convinced. You made your mind, you knew anything would be better than staying here. You didn’t ask for any of this. Were “the others” really even worse than what you had here? You doubted. Especially now, knowing what was their purpose.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” The angry voice startled you, it was the first thing that made you hesitate, but it’s not like you had much time to reconsider.

A hand wrapped around your hair, pulling you backwards and you landed on the  snow with a shriek, the bag falling off your shoulder. 

Chanyeøl stood over you, his face twisted in anger.

“You think that’s funny?” he spat at you; you didn’t think it was, but Chën’s laughter resonated in the distance. 

“Y-you said…”

“Get the fuck up.”

He seemingly resisted the urge to kick your side to hurry you as you scrambled to your feet, head low in fear. 

Chanyeøl stared at you coldly. 

“Get back inside. Now!” he growled. 

You passed by him without a word. Your body shook in fear and cold; maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to leave, after all? Just how far you’d make it anyway? You were so weak. 

Suddenly, a small, weird sound resonated right behind your back, followed by a groan. You turned around rapidly. 

There was an arrow in Chanyeøl’s shoulder, all the way through, its sharp head glistening with red, sticking out of his back. 

The man stumbled backwards and you jumped away in fear before tearing your gaze away to look in the direction the arrow must have come from. 

There was a man holding a bow in his hand. You knew his face. You’ve meet him before.

But you didn’t. It wasn’t the same person, the look in his eyes was not the mocking glimmer you’ve seen in Sehůn’s. Who was he?

Who were the other five men gathered around?

Two dark eyes of Chanyeøl’s nemesis stared at him coldly, and Chanyeøl glared back with hate you’ve never seen in anyone else before.

“Move away from her” the other Suhø spoke. 

Chanyeøl snorted, pushing himself off the ground. Before you could react, his arm wrapped around your neck as he pulled your body against his chest, a human shield. The arrow in his shoulder didn’t seem to bother him half as much as it bothered you.

“Or what?” he dared.

Someone pushed through the crowd of men; a smaller silhouette that stood behind them until now, with her arms crossed on her chest and an unreadable look on her face. 

Yøu. 

Your breath hitched at you stared at hër in complete shock. Shë stared back, also curious, maybe not that confused, seemingly knowing what awaited hër here, but also surprised – it’s not really a situation one can prepare for too well. You couldn’t help comparing herself to hër. Shë seemed prepared, with hër hair not as messy as yours that weren’t treated with a haircut in ages, lipstick on hër lips, a color that suited hër so well, which should suit you too, even though you’ve never considered it before. 

You didn’t have too long to think about it. 

Chanyeøl pushed you forward, as if instantly giving up your own self; as if, in fact, you didn’t matter to begin with. Just means to his own success, as you realized. What did it matter?  He wanted to kill both of you, anyway. Why did he want hër here so much?

The both of you passed by each other, still too shocked to exchange even a word of greeting. 

You couldn’t see anything, your eyes wouldn’t focus enough to keep you aware of where were you going. You thought you’re gonna stumble and fall, but a pair of hands was suddenly on your shoulders, grounding you, a motion so gentle and protective you couldn’t help the tears gathering in your eyes. You missed it. You missed the warmth.

The other Chanyeøl studied your face intently.

“Are you alright?” he asked and you forced yourself to nod slightly, although your legs felt like a jelly. He pursed his lips. “You can rest. You’re with us now. You’re safe.”

Please, reblog if you enjoyed! It’s not much, but it’d help me a lot!

[infantacarclina]

𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑫𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺.

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?”

post type : self-paragraph.

word count : 2,911.

mentions of : religious devotion, illicit romance.

brief mentions of @joannaofportugal

“If the Bishop is dead, then who will be left to give him a Christian burial?” 

There was no doubting that Abbot Antunyes’ death left a darkened cloud to linger over the Monastery of Santa Clara a Velha, and yet there was much preparation at hand to make way for the new Abbot, Father Henriques, who rode from Lisbon to fill his late predecessor’s role. Sister María’s look darkened to a glower as she knelt before Carolina and gathered a clump of soil in her hands, staining the dark sable of her habit in soot. This was the first inkling Carolina had been made aware of that things were going to be different from now on. Antunyes, who had prostrated himself before the royal purse and groveled before the crown, was dead.

“The monks will tend to him,” María explained, a hand lifting to wipe her brow and leaving a smear of dirt behind. “Come, Sister, your youth is invaluable.” 

Her head spinning with speculation, the Infanta fell to her knees and dug her hands into the cool earth, digging the spot where Antunyes would be laid to rest. She worked like a broken puppet, movements rathe and uncoordinated, lumps of both clay and rock thrown haphazardly over her shoulder. She did not resist as Sister María instructed for her to hasten, a silent prayer lingering upon the crackled oxbow of her lips all the while. 

In truth, Antunyes, aged and addled with gout and weakened with arthritis as he was, was more powerful dead than he was alive. Tales of the Christian people of Coimbra flocking to the late Father’s cathedral to smear themselves with the blood of their holy prelate, or to snip pieces from his bloodstained vestments as relics, traveled across the length and breadth of Iberia. Young and potent and charismatic though he was, Henriques would have a mighty role to double as. Soon, the townsfolk –– many of them who had only ever known one bishop to come to with their troubles throughout their lives –– would make claims that miracles had been taking place at Antunyes’ tomb. 

Carolina pressed both hands into the ground, stretched across the courtyard low enough that her nose was nearly flush with the dirt, as a frigid trickle of sweat fell from the tip of her nose into the weeds that lay flat beneath the soil. What a sorrowful tomb it was, she mused, a wooden box lined with muslin, shoved into the ground without a Bishop to bless it. Though perhaps that had been Antunyes’ final wish: as unremarkable and ghastly as his resting place was, was that not where the majority of miracles were known to take root?

The Infanta gripped the rosary slung from her throat with muddied hands, another cold gust of wind stabbing sharply at her lungs. 

“That will be well enough for the gravediggers. I will request a warm basin to be brought to your chamber.” 

Three days after Antunyes had breathed his last, Henriques had still not arrived –– and yet Carolina’s mind was consumed by a missive that arrived from the Palace, inscribed by her mother’s own hand. She ran her fingertips across her mother’s decorative script, signed Crara the Quene, and brought the slip of parchment to her nose, breathing in its smell of leather and wax deeply. Her mother wrote of the triumph of the Lisbon Summit, and of her abiding longing for her two youngest daughters. Carolina had longed to attend the pageantry, and yet with the presence of so many conspiring guests, it was advised that she be sent someplace where she’d be safe. 

Glancing around the lusterless, gray chamber, carved of slanted ceilings and stone walls, she released a careworn sigh. With what little stipends she was bequeathed by the monastery, she’d purchased her own parchment, quill and ink, and set about rejoining her mother without a moment’s notice. It was ironic that the woman who commissioned the great and ancient monastery had been a Portuguese Queen, alike her own mother, often called upon to make peace between warring kings and lords. She’d lived out her dotage under the sisters of Santa Clara’s care, though left no royal accommodations for Carolina and Joanna to relish. Only strict, monastic severity. Brick-hard beds and hearths too small to radiate even the little chamber Carolina had been billeted.

Many of the Infanta’s days were spent by lonesome. If not toiling away at duties –– which included farm-work, providing alms and fare to the poor, care of the sick, and education to boys being reared in the local church –– or indulging in rare moments where she could see her sister (for they were often instructed to remain silent and joyless as they passed one another in the corridors) there was a sense of distressing loneliness housed in her breast. Shut away from the world as they were, there was no shame in the humility that had overcome her livelihood. Required to wear, on some days, rough robes of sackcloth that had been smeared from ashes from a fire, in penitence for the world’s terrible sins, there was nothing, in the eyes of the sisters, that could ever truly expiate it. 

Carolina reminded herself that she must simply go through the motions, and that she would join her mother and father and sisters’ at their sides soon. Monastic life was meant to be a gift, a test of both fortitude of piety and character, and if the grandmothers who had come before her could endure and resist the temptation to shatter, she would, too. She need only concern herself if Joanna could survive it all. 

She thought it was a great pity that she could not, for a single moment, slip into the role of one of the Portuguese lords who had seen her mother coronated. The sight of her refined, majestic mother in her silk gown and gold coronet, enthroned in the Jeronimos Monastery, would have surely gladdened her morose heart and filled her imagination with splendour and wonder. She touched the limestone walls, the frosted over windows, the arch of the hearth, the worse-for-wear floorboards, the wooden door that creaked as she caressed it with the palm of her hand, as if to absorb the religious asceticism thrumming through the walls. 

Yet, it was at that self-same moment that the hinges of the door gave, and rusted nails poured down upon Carolina’s gilded head as the door fell forward, and she tumbled after it. Prostrated on the floor, on her hands and knees before the black robes of a monk who’d passed by and now stood over her. “Sister Carolina –– do swear it to me you were not meaning to escape. You have all the subtlety of a circus cavalcade.”

The Infanta reached forth to grasp the hand of the monk who lifted her to her feet. “Brother Lourenço.” She shook her head, now acutely aware of her exposed hair, “no –– no. To escape religious order is to run headfirst...”

“...into Hell,” he larked in unison. “You’ve listened well to Father Antunyes’ teachings. God rest his soul.” Lourenço made the sign of the cross upon his chest. As he did so, Carolina worried at her fingertips, praying to the God that the floorboards swallow her whole or, for all her sins, por favor Deus, bestow upon her a reasonable excuse for her trespasses. 

“The fire,” she suddenly sputtered, “the fire in my room extinguished. Please, if you could spare me another pile of wood I–I am like to catch a chill without it.”

His head canted thoughtfully, the morning sun illuminating the deep hollow of his cheek. “Very well. Come with me, sister.”

As they treaded the winding corridors of the monastery, they spoke of much –– of the palace and court in Lisbon, which Brother Lourenço took an acute, albeit distanced interest in; of his religious vows, upbringing and forays at a university in France; of his journeys from Calais to Dover, and as he remembered the choir that sang for her uncle King Edward in London, he smiled, turning to her and bestowing a compliment upon the rosary that laid flat on her chest. The sun had shined its magnificent glister upon the rubies encrusted within the crucifix she piously donned, reflecting upon the Infanta’s silvery skin –– reddened with unbidden flush. 

She found that he was not without humour, either, and as he hit his head against the ceiling of her hearth as he lit another log to burn, they two dissolved into fits of laughter that trembled the walls of the gravely quiet monastery. It was not until several moments later that Brother Lourenço slipped away, promising her that he would continue to share more stories with her, more remembrances, leaving her with a throat that ached from laughter and a belly that panged with something indescribable. Somehow, in his wake, the chamber, now warmed with a merry fire, felt evermore lonesome. 

Almost a week had past since Father Antunyes had died and been buried, now resting in the hill covered with earth that Carolina could see faintly from the vantage of her window. Spring was thawing into a humid summer, and soon a meadow would sprout and surround Antunyes’ meek headstone. Carolina knelt her head against the window as the brother’s haunting ensemble reverberated from the cloister below. The soulful chants of Deus misertus hominis echoed across the grounds, and the glass-pane of her windows seemed to quiver in response. 

When nightfall blanketed the monastery, Carolina hastened after Sister María to engage in her devotionals. Ushered beneath the stone arches of the accompanying church, the sisters stripped of their gossamer veils and their shoes and their cloaks, and left only in their humble habits, Carolina could easily see her sister Joanna’s unmistakably fiery locks from across the assembly of pews. She silently fell before the altar and touched her cheek against the damp floor, breathing in the sweat and tears of the sisters. As she exited, she dusted her fingertips against the marble tomb of the Queen who’d commissioned the monastery –– perhaps a distant grandmother, or aunt, to the Infant –– and fell into step behind a throng of nuns. They stood beneath the arches of the church for what felt like hours to await the passing of the rains. Carolina’s hair was wizened with humidity by the time the now familiar pitter-patter of raindrops had ended, and yet the wait had seemed, in her eyes, well-worth it, for as she passed the cloister, allowed her toes to sink into the wet grass and become muddied and slick, she caught sight of Brother Lourenço. He winked at her (his eyes were fearsomely blue) and brought a single digit to his lips, as if to say, quiet now. You enter God’s house. 

The next she saw of him was at a feast to (cautiously) celebrate Henriques’ impending arrival. As summer approached, the earth had warmed and become wet, and the Father’s travels were delayed by a fortnight. The sisters feasted upon ale and fish and each were given a slice of sweetened bread to break in the privacy of their chambers. Carolina picked at the red and purple berries embedded into the roll, and rolled hers in a snip of linen as she waltzed from the refectory with a belly full and cheerful. The skies were irritated with stars and the breeze was hot as she meandered the rectangular perimeter of the cloister, the mild airs caressing against her skin like the Almighty’s own touch. It brought an instant flush to her face, a glean to her forehead, appearing even beneath the veil she wore. Summer was here, which meant her time under the strict care of the monastery was coming to an unhurried end. 

“Sister Carolina.” 

It was his voice. She would have recognised it anywhere. The Infanta turned round to meet him, gesturing between the two linen wraps in their hands. “Is the bread any good?” 

“After a while here,” he approached her, a smile slanting his lips, “any deviation from mead and fish is welcome.”

“It would be a great pity to break our bread by lonesome, then, Brother. How often does one celebrate the changing-of-hands of a monastery?” 

“A great pity.” His smile brightened into a gleam, teeth on full-display. “Come with me to the river. I’ll show you my place of solace.”  

Thank God Father Antunyes was dead, for while he had been alive, it would have been impossible for her to slip or sneak away under his hawkish, but well-intentioned gaze, even under the cloak of nightfall. Together, they sat beside the current of the Mondego river and broke their bread over rapidly flowing conversation. The river stank of brine and wet wool, but the night was pleasant. “I believe Father Antunyes’ words to be true,” she said after some silence had descended, “there is no godliness beyond these walls. In Lisbon, I mean, there are bishops as there is here, there are good men and women as there are here, and there is prayer and sacrifice, but it is...” 

“A farce.”

“Yes, a farce. Merely a way to preserve the favour of God and country. There is no deeper sense of devotion. It is as shallow as...” Her hand wafted over the river’s gentle ripples, “as the bank of a stream.” 

“That is why I left France,” he shared, “though I was a man of the cloth there as I am here, there was no one to share my fervor. I was anticipated to use my piety as a bargaining tool for brokering the late king’s favour. I could not fathom it. I had no option but to embrace order and tradition.” 

“Is it true Father Henriques is dead?” Carolina wondered aloud.

Lourenço barked out in laughter at that, prying: “why would you ask that?” 

“He is not here, and there has been no word or dispatch of news of his travels.” Her shoulders lifted into a shrug, “it is merely a suspicion...” 

“A suspicion brought on by years of exposure to the viperous court of Lisbon,” he counseled, brushing a stray ringlet of hair from Carolina’s throat. She inhaled a sharp gust of air, whistling between her lips. Yet, as if on cue, pounding horse hooves alerted her to the arrival of newcomers to the monastery. From a distance, she could see the glow of torches lighting up the monastery’s entrance, and the coat-of-arms of the Braganza family rippling from a banner that hung like the gardens of Babylon from the intruders’ steeds.

“It is him,” She breathed, clambering to her feet, “it is Father Henriques. Quick, quick, we must go to greet him! I believe he will have brought me word from my mother, the Queen. Help me out of this muck.” 

Lourenço rose to stand beside her, and for perhaps a first, she took into account his height. He loomed above her, all sharp angles, save for the little dip in the cleft of his chin, the curl of his hair around his forehead, falling in a middle part around his face, framing dark eyes, a crooked nose, mischievous lips. 

 He was not handsome, no –– older, too –– but fascinating. “Sister...”

“What?” She snapped. “I must go. Perhaps she means to send me back with his men. Perhaps they will bring Joanna and I back to Lisbon.”

“If you are to go, then give me this.” He joined their hands together and she accepted the touch readily, if not impatiently. Must he do this now? Now, when she could very well be readying her belongings for travel? 

It had to be destiny, of this Carolina was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, coupled with the ardent presence of elation. God had led this man, this holy, embittered man, to cross her path; this man who had the power to strip her of her apprehensions, her misgivings and resentments, just as he held the ability to satisfy her longing for another’s presence, a man’s touch. He was wearing the same habit she had met him in, but he smelled of herbs and the river’s salinity and something uniquely fresh, clinging to his flesh as her hands clung to his. He crushed his lips to her forehead, urgent and as sweet as a plum. She took it upon herself to rise onto her tiptoes and bring their lips together, moving in fervent unison. Not a first kiss, but the first to cause her belly to feel molten, alive like the volcano that had covered Pompeii in fire and ash.

Lourenço’s strong arms folded around her, bringing her closer to his chest, as his fingers, rough with manual labour, tugged at her veil until it loosened and her blonde hair surged freely down her spine. She gave like-for-like in return, relishing him with the little flickers of her tongue, her mouth opening to his, exciting him with her hands at his shoulders, steadying herself, until he could bear it no more and broke loose of her spell. 

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?” 

It was hours before she slept, and days before she set eyes upon Lourenço again. No longer did she call him Brother Lourenço, for he was something more in the eyes of Christ –– he was an amour. Or, at least, he might have been, had Father Henriques not handed her a letter that sealed her fate as the future Countess of Ourem. Her father had bargained well, and she was to be married. 

[drkcnry67]

in truth...

title: in truth

pairing: dean x reader

fluff: in vino veritas

heaven and hell: book of the damned

rating: pg

tags: nothing really too major...

summery: not telling

@spnfluffbingo @heavenandhellbingo @sweetness47

You had to do something, you were not about to let the mark on the love of your life kill him… so you made a deal, you had gotten your hands on the book of the damned and you were now working with Rowena to try and remove the mark…

Rowena: are you sure you don't want to talk to Dean about this… I mean it's his life, his risks…

Yn: I know what he would say and I would rather just remove the mark and save his ass… so we can start the beginning of the rest of our lives together.

Rowena looks up from the book briefly…

Rowena: does that mean something happened, or is it something you learned?

Yn: its none of your concern, now lets just do this...

Rowena: ok fine, let's begin…

The spell’s list of ingredients were not long, but some had been lost to man for ages, centuries in fact:

Something made by God, but forbidden to man: the forbidden fruit-the apple from the garden which crowley had helped to procure for this spell

Something made by man, but forbidden by God: The remains of the golden calf idol, which was later destroyed

The caster's heart: The life of the thing the spell caster loves most

The fourth and final ingredient is a lock of hair from the target with the mark: you had taken a lock of hair from dean when you gave him a hair cut…

Rowena: yn since this is your spell, please tell me what have you brought that is the life of you

You present the case to rowena who opens it and smiles ever so slightly.

Rowena: so what being does this type of murder…

YN: one who wants to save the life of the father of her unborn baby…

Rowena: finally, how long have you known?

You had to take a breath, you were really overwhelmed…

Yn: about a week, since my last doctor appointment. Ive been waiting for the right time to tell Dean but the mark has to go away before dean and i can talk about this baby… cause the mark is causing him to for as hot as it is, be a lean mean hunting machine, talking to sam about this many nights after hunts, sam has told me that he has nearly been killed because dean just gets carried away. This mark needs to be removed and i know he would not listen to me if i tried to explain this…

Rowena: very well, but so you know, you and dean will still have more troubles once the mark goes away, the danger will still be ever present. The hunt doesnt stop when you remove the mark, it will intensify it in more ways then one.

You were now the one standing over the bowl where the ingredients you would be using were being placed with the following words:

YN: Ab manu Dei! (by the hand of God)

You placed the forbidden fruit the apple of the garden of eden into the bowl.

Yn: Ab manu hominis! (by the hand of man)

You placed the piece of the golden calf idol into the bowl

Yn: Ab cruore cordis mei ad fusuro in aeternum! (my bleeding heart i cast into eternity)

You opened the case and poured the heart of your own mother into the bowl.

YN: Tolle maledictionem tuam, ab hoc viro! (take your curse from this man)

Thats when you took the lock of deans hair and put that into the bowl. Suddenly a red blush colored light flew from the bowl, it flung you and rowena back, and left you both to go find dean. You got up and ran after it, you only hoped that you would get to dean before it got to dean…

you were scared, but you ran anyway, rowena on your tail, she had the book, she remembered your deal but she wanted to give you the book anyway. She didnt want it knowing that you were expecting.

You saw dean and dam arriving home at the bunker, you were half way down the road, you stopped suddenly, the red light flying over head… your only instinct was to yell.

YN: dean watch out… im sorry love i had to do it…

Thats when dean was struck by the red flash… once it was done with dean, it flew up into the sky, and suddenly the entire earth went dark as night. You ran a bit more but fell down closer to the impala…

You passed out from power exhaustion and from all that running. You woke up a few hours later only to find that you were on yours and dean bed… dean was just sitting there.

Dean: i know what you did, but i have to ask you why…

Yn: cause i didn't want you to go into the next phase of our lives together with that mark, it was changing you dean, it was changing you… do you know that you almost let your brother die last week during one of your hunts… never mind when me and you went to handle a demon a few days ago. I needed you to have a clear head for what i was gonna tell you.

Dean stands up… but before he could speak the words that you had been holding back for a while now just came spilling out.

Yn: we are pregnant!

This made dean stop dead in his tracks… this made his expressions change rapidly.

Dean: what did you just say?

You grabbed his hand and pulled him to sit on the bed as you looked into his eyes…

YN: i found out last week at the doctor, i am carrying your child dean winchester, and i know its not been that many years together and we haven't even discussed children as a future possibility but i totally understand if you don't want to raise this baby with me… and if that's the case then ill leave but on the off chance that i am wrong about you that you do want to raise this baby with me then please for the love of god understand now that what i did i'm removing the mark, i did it for us, for our future, for the life of our child.

All dean did was cup your cheek…

Dean: don't you dare think for one second that i would ever want your baby.. Hello yn… you don't know me but i know you… i also know that when you removed the mark off your boyfriend here, i was able to crawl into his body, he was supposed to keep the mark. You were not supposed to remove it… you didnt keep it locked up…

You reached round the back of your headboard, you grabbed the small vile and tilted his head back and dumped it down his throat.

Yn: in vino veritas… you just ingested truth serum. Now tell me the truth, who are you and what is coming, what did i unleash by removing the mark off of Dean…

Demon: i have no name, i am from the inner circle to the overlord, i am the one thing standing between you and your boyfriend here, who let me tell you is trying to fight his way out of my blockades. But to tell you the truth, the mark of cain held in the darkness, god’s sister, and without a host the darkness is free to destroy all she touches.

You lept off the bed, and revealed the devils trap beneath the bed. You did the exorcism and dean’s body fell lifeless on the bed. It was 3 minutes later that he sat shot straight up and he looked at you.

Dean: yn im so sorry, i didnt have any control, i heard everything that monster said… and im thrilled that you and i are going to be parents. Dont think for one second that anything the demon said was anything remotely close to what i want… i want you and this baby and we are gonna have the perfect life together you will see.

The rest of the day was spent cuddling in bed, you were discussing baby ideas, plans to add a doorway to the room next door, the plans grew and grew till you both passed out from mental and physical exhaustion.

No one thing would stop you and dean from living your best lives, no one would stop you guys from living eachother till the day you truly were to part.

[christine-thinks]

Forged With Fire - Deleted Scene #1

What’s this? Actual, original work?? Yes!

Since Forged With Fire is written from Sloan’s perspective, this scene never would have been in the final work (she’s literally unconscious here), but it’s also a bit too soft tonally to fit where it would have shown up in the timeline. 

But! I loved the idea of Moses, who has done nothing but growl at everyone up to this point, make a family dinner (while growling at everyone). 

Also trying on a different name for the hacker yet again, this time it’s ‘Zélomé‘ (zay-lo-may), which I completely made up. We’ll see if it sticks!

🍲🍲🍲

Zélomé tacked at her keyboard while Moses paced back and forth in the kitchen in front of her.

“We need food,” said Moses suddenly, “For when Sloan wakes up,”

“Sure,” Zélomé said absentmindedly, “There’s some take-out menus in the cupboard under the sink—we can—”

“Take-out?” Moses had stopped pacing and was staring at Zélomé.

“Yeah,” said Zélomé slowly, glancing at Moses, “You know, like, food? From a restaurant? Not everybody can survive on like, powerbars and protein shakes or whatever it is you subsist on,”

“Ugh,” said Moses, making a face. “What food do you have here?”

“I don’t know,” Zélomé shrugged, although Moses had whipped open her refrigerator before waiting for an answer.

“You...don’t have any vegetables in here,” said Moses.

Zélomé rolled her eyes, “No. They go bad before I use them—why would I bother?”

“Do you have any kind of protein at all?”

“You’re the one looking in the fridge,” Zélomé went back to her typing, “There’s some cans of stuff in the cupboards, too...somewhere,”

Moses closed the refrigerator with a tap of her foot and began opening and closing the cabinets, pausing when she found one with unopened spice jars and canned food. She didn’t need to stand on her toes like Zélomé did to reach the top shelf—she easily picked up a few cans and examined the labels.

“You have three cans of hominy, but no milk? Or eggs?”

Zélomé shrugged again, “My mom always had some in her pantry. Why, did they go bad or something?”

“You don’t—” Moses stopped and shook her head, "No, it’s canned. It’s fine,”

She placed the can of hominy beans on the counter and began rummaging through the cupboard again, murmuring to herself as she pulled out more cans and spices. Zélomé continued her half-hearted research on Bishop: she had a good handle on his finances and investments now, as well as his public reputation and business relationships, but the real information would be in much darker places. She didn’t want to venture there now. She was tired.

Zélomé stared blankly at the screen for a few more moments before sighing, closing her eyes, and placing her hands over her face. She usually felt so inspired after a job—even when they went wrong. And this one hadn’t even gone that wrong—they were all still alive, weren’t they?  

Okay, they hadn’t gotten paid for their trouble—that sucked—nor did they still have the painting itself. But no one was after them. At least, not for the moment. Sloan would figure something out, surely. Wouldn’t she?

“Have you ever even used these knives?”

Moses’ question nearly startled Zélomé out of her weariness—she removed her hands from her face and looked over at Moses, who was examining the probably dusty knife block shoved into a back corner on the counter.

“Maybe,” Zélomé replied.

“They’re nice,” said Moses, and Zélomé was surprised to hear the note of admiration in her voice. “Is it alright if I use them?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Moses nodded, “Where’s your pots and pans?”

“Pot and pan—singular. They’re over there,” she pointed to a cabinet Moses hadn’t yet rifled through. Moses sighed, but opened the cupboard and pulled out the almost-new cookware. She set them on the stove and clicked on two of the burners before opening some of the canned vegetables on the counter and draining them in the sink.

Zélomé watched with fascination as Moses deftly chopped or minced the assortment of ingredients arranged in front of her. She had assumed Moses was good with knives—anything sharp, or anything that could be sharpened, really—but not like this. Zélomé’s mother was an excellent cook, and she’d had roommates who would have considered themselves aspiring chefs, but Moses was on a whole other level entirely.  

Alright, so Zélomé’s only frame of reference for professional chefs came from fast-paced reality TV shows, but she was pretty confident in her assessment. Moses was quick, and deliberate, and precise, and at the very least really looked like she knew what she was doing.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Zélomé finally asked, after staring at Moses’ hands for probably too long a time.

“Around,” Moses replied, not bothering to face her.

Zélomé rolled her eyes, “Like where?”

Moses stopped chopping and started to fill the pot with water, “My parents. Travelling. Just...around,”

“Hmm, travelling. Right. I didn’t realize black ops agents needed to be trained as chefs too,”

After she set the pot back on the stove, Moses poured some kind of oil into the pan, “Anything can be used as a weapon. Knowing the ways food can be prepared means you know the ways it can be tampered with,”

Zélomé covered her face in her hands again, “Oh, my God. I was kidding, Moses. Is that seriously it?”

Moses shrugged as she picked up the cutting board and swept the chopped and minced vegetables into the pan with one swift motion.

“My parents taught me first,” Moses said, after a moment.

Zélomé perked up—something personal? From Moses?—but held her tongue. If Moses was going to share, it was most definitely going to be on her own terms, not because Zélomé was prodding. But Moses didn’t say anything else, only stirred the pan on the stove.

Whatever Moses had put in the pan started to sizzle and smell familiar—like onions and chilis, although where Moses had found an onion, Zélomé wasn’t sure.

“What are you making, anyway?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Moses flipped whatever was in the pan—peppers, maybe?—with ease.

“Pozole,” she said, “Or, a variation of it. Pozole verde, I guess. You didn’t have any meat,”

No wonder it smelled familiar.

“Meat goes bad faster than vegetables—plus it’s more expensive,” Zélomé said, feeling defensive.

“You wouldn’t have shit going bad at all if you actually used it,” Moses tilted the pan and scraped the vegetables into the pot, which made a loud bubbling sound, “Or do you not know how?”

“I know how to cook!” Zélomé huffed, “I just don’t have the time,”

“Make time,” Moses put a lid on the pot, which quieted the bubbling.  

“What’s the point? Fast food is cheaper, take out is easier. I don’t—”

Moses turned around to face her, throwing a dish towel—where had she gotten a dish towel?—over her broad shoulder and crossing her arms.

“Cooking is important. Making food for yourself is important,” She didn’t look upset, exactly, but Moses was staring at Zélomé with such intensity it made her want to squirm. Zélomé had seen Moses intense before—just before a particularly heated fight, or just after a low blow from an opponent—but there was something else fueling her here.

“It’s human—to make food, to create something,” she continued, “It keeps you grounded. Connected. To humanity,”

Passion.  

Zélomé tilted her head slightly—so, she could get Moses to let down her walls after all.

“Or, you know. Whatever,” Moses muttered, turning around and beginning to pick up the dirtied utensils.

“Here, let me,” Zélomé hopped off her stool and joined Moses at the counter, “This I know how to do,”

[ardentmuse]

A First of Many (Thomas Mendez x Reader)

Choices: Mother of the Year - Thomas Mendez x Fem!Reader (MC)

Wordcount: 2.2k

Warnings: fluff, flirting, and mild angst, no direct mention of Thomas’s deceased wife, but references... spoilers for the diamond scene in Chapter 12. 

Masterlist

A/N: What would a multi-fandom blog be without introducing a new fandom constantly? I know none of you are here for this, but this is what I wanted to write today, so it’s what you are getting. 

As many of you know, I’m a huge Interactive Fiction fan and a part of the Choices fandom since the beginning. I have it deep for Thomas Mendez in MOTY and as much as I loved the diamond scene in Chapter 12, there was not nearly enough build up. I needed more flirting, more implications that Thomas was seeing that things could be different than he imagined, that Luz was on board with him moving forward after Soledad, so I wrote it. Please enjoy, lovelies! 

Quick key: Y/N - Your Name, Y/D/N - Your Daughter’s Name

Light caress of fingers upon the small of your back sent chills down your spine. The hairs at the back of your neck stood on end as you felt Thomas’s breath upon your ear.

“It’s looking good.”

His eyes were taking in the sautéing ingredients in the pot. Sure, the onions were a variety of sizes, medium dice and fine chop mixing together, some raw and some broken down, but that’s what happens when you let a ten-year old do your mise en place. Though you had to admit, Luz was pretty good with a knife, a fact that honestly wasn’t all that surprising now that you thought about it. 

Thomas’s hand didn’t leave the small of your back as he added a handful of spices to the pot of pozole rojo. Part of you wondered if he knew the impact his touch had on you, how on-fire your body grew at his presence, so close yet so forbidden. When he squeezed lightly at your hip, his fingers cupping into the flesh of you as he took another whiff of the delicious pot, you had your answer. 

“I can’t wait to try some,” he said to you as he slipped away to help your daughter drain the hominy. 

It took you a moment or two to collect yourself. Thomas had said he wasn’t ready; that things were going too fast between the two of you and that he needed time and distance. But here you were, in his house – to which he invited you – sharing in his family traditions and creating new memories together. You turned your gaze to take him in. His back was to you now as he reached around your daughter, offering his support for the heavy colander she was wielding. He was talking to her in such gentle tones, explaining to her the next steps of the recipe and answering her questions about the food itself. His sweater stretched with the movement of the muscles of his back, ones that you hadn’t stopped seeing in your mind since that run together several weeks ago, a beautiful expanse of strength of virility, hidden under his soft professional attire and often slumped in stress and exhaustion. You longed to see them in their full glory – holding him upright with pride and conviction as he took down corrupt corporations or stretching taut in exertion as he hovered over you in bed, bearing his weight upon you with each thrust, each dip of his shoulders as he kissed you lips, your nose, your neck, as he praised you with love and sweetness before his release.

Your face grew hot, and it wasn’t the fault of the stovetop or the peppers. 

“Y/D/N’s mom, I think the onions are burning.”

You snapped your eyes away from Thomas to find Luz sitting crisscross upon the counter, her face hovering over the pot. She turned her gaze to you and followed the path where your eyes had been before offering a giant, conspiratorial smile.

“I can stir the veggies if you wanna help dad. I’m really good with fire.”

Thomas turned to you both then, offering the sort of reproachful smile you had seen him pull out so many times before. Luz was a handful for sure, but she always respected her father’s word, the ease between them such a joy to witness. 

God, he’s a good father. Shame he doesn’t have more kids…

You felt your mind going places it shouldn’t: a home together,  a little baby boy in your arms, your daughter – or rather daughters – fighting over who got to hold the baby next, and Thomas beside you, cradling you in his arms as he puts away the work for a few weeks, calm and happy and pure. 

You tried to remind yourself what he had said. You are just friends. Good friends. Supportive friends. Friends who kiss. Friends who run their fingers along each other’s backs and whisper in their ears. Friends who find every excuse to touch…. Friends who lie about their feelings to save them from acknowledging that change may be okay, and even a necessary part of healing.

“Do you remember what happened last time I let you man the stove, Luz?” Thomas said as he moved towards the counter, lifting his daughter up by the armpits to help he back onto the floor. 

“I ruined dinner,” she admitted freely. 

“And some flatware.” 

“How was I supposed to know those forks could melt?” 

Your daughter chimed up from the other side of the room, “I read once that gas burners can get as hot as 800 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s almost as hot as Venus!” 

“NO WAY!” Luz said as she moved her head down to take a look at heat source. Your daughter joined as they chatted merrily about where the fire comes from and all the things they might be able to burn with it. 

You gave the pot one last stir before dropping the temperature down to simmer. The girls groaned but kept their watch as he moved to give them their space to bond. Thomas poured in the remaining ingredients and joined you on the other side of the kitchen, handing you a glass of wine you hadn’t even realized you wanted. 

You leaned against the counter top and watched your children – and tried your hardest not to hope that this little joy might become your constant. 

“They really get along great, don’t they?” Thomas asked as a smile pulled at this face, one that often came to him as he took Luz in, all her exuberance and joy spreading to him like wildfire. 

“They really, really do,” you confirmed as you took a slow sip, “I’m glad they found each other.” 

Thomas pulled his eyes from his daughter to take in your face. His brows were pulled together, but his face was soft. His dark red locks fell a bit on his forehead, brushing against the few faint freckles there.

“I’m glad, too,” he whispered as his hands found your wrist upon the counter, “For finding both of you.” 

Thomas’s gaze dropped to your lips for just a moment and you had to look away. Something about the simple look was too intimate, too much what you wanted that it felt wrong to indulge after he had told you no. 

But you did turn your hand upon the counter upward, catching your fingers in his in silent confirmation that you were here, waiting, for whenever he was ready. He gave you hand the quickest squeeze and made to pull closer when your daughter’s voice called to you once more.

“When will dinner be done?” 

Thomas pulled away from you once more, abandoning his wine to the counter as he moved towards the pot. He stirred it twice, the rich aroma lofting over to where you stood, and soon he was smiling down at the girls. 

“Now,” he said, before his eyes pulled to you once more. You felt something in his gaze shift, something so small at the corners of his eyes that you couldn’t quite identify. And with that look, he added, “Pending Y/N’s approval.”

He dipped the tasting spoon into the pot, pulling out a bite that contained a mix of broth, vegetable, and meat. He held his hand under the spoon and he offered it up to you. 

Smoothly, you walked towards him and reached out for the spoon but Thomas didn’t let you. Instead, he moved his hands towards your mouth in one delicate smooth motion. 

“Our resident taste tester,” he said with a smile, his beautiful mouth on display for you as you open yours wide to take in what he is offering you. You registered the word “resident” a moment too late, the implication of it a little too much for your brain to handle with Thomas so close to your mouth.

The feel of the spice spread down the sides of you tongue and the rich heartiness of meat and hominy eased its tingle. Your mouth was joyous with the flavor and as you swallowed, you couldn’t help but smile at what you had accomplished together.

“Delicious,” you assured Thomas, who still held the spoon close to your face and was watching your lips closely. 

His grin grew even bigger at your words, his full lips growing more kissable by the minute. But before you could do something stupid, Thomas turned, shut off the burner, and began serving up bowls for the girls, who quickly ran off to the dining room table. 

And when he turned to you, a bowl in hand, he paused once again. His eyes found your mouth on instinct and you felt yourself flush at the attention. Why did your body have to call to him so?

He lifted a finger and wiped softly at your lips. You parted your mouth, sighing at the closeness and Thomas’s intense gaze. When he pulled his finger away, this was a faint bit of red upon the tip, which he held up for you to see.

“Saving some for later?” he asked.

“Don’t think I have to. We’ve got plenty.”

Thomas chuckled and turned his back to you. He seemed to be reaching for a rag to wipe at his finger but he paused. Though you couldn’t quite see, you thought he took the tip of his finger into his mouth and pulled it out clean. Something about it, even just the idea that he’d rather taste what was upon your lips than wipe it away sent your heart rate through the roof. And before he could recover, you took your bowl and ran into the dining room with the girls, willing your body to return to normal. 

Once you were seated, Thomas took the one beside you. Your girls were already taking big bites of their soup, hungry and excited for the challenge the spice provided. 

“We can do better,” Luz said before taking the chile paste and adding a giant glob into her bowl. 

“Yeah,” your daughter confirmed before doing the same. The girls stirred frantically, mixing up the spice as you eyed Thomas, wondering if you should give the girls any warning.

“If you get stomachaches, that’s on you.”

“We’ll be fine, dad,” Luz said before taking another giant bite. You watched as her face changed, her expression steel as her eyes watered. She was trying her hardest to tough it out and it only made you laugh.

“Oh, too spicy!” you daughter called, sticking out her tongue and panting like a dog.

“Milk. Milk will help!” Luz ran into the kitchen and brought back two glasses for them and together they continued to eat merrily.

You and Thomas joined them, taking reasonable bites in silence, his knee occasionally brushing against yours under the table, his soft woolen slacks a pleasant scrap against your bare knee caps. You would have thought it was an accident if he didn’t smirk overtop of every bite he placed in his mouth. 

“You know, this is nice,” Luz said as she tilted her bowl to get at the last bits of broth pooling at the bottom. “Having Y/D/N and Y/D/N’s mom here is fun. We should do this more often. Maybe every night!” 

Your daughter beamed beside her best friend. And you were so grateful that she felt at home here, among people who loved and cared for her. 

Beside you, Thomas seemed to stiffen at his daughter’s words and you understood why. This had been exactly what he had wanted to avoid. 

But before you could pipe up and tell Luz that it was important that she have time alone with her father, too, Thomas’s hand found yours under the table and gave a soft squeeze. He cupped your fingers in his own, delicate and tender. You could feel his pulse racing in his palm and part of you was grateful to know your impact on each other was mutual.

You looked up at him as his gaze took you in, a soft and reassuring smile playing on his face as the tension eased out of his shoulders. 

He turned to his daughter once more, who was bouncing in her seat, waiting for a response. 

“Maybe not every night, sweetheart, but I think something can be arranged. I must admit, I enjoy having Y/N and Y/D/N here, too. It feels right.”

Luz and your daughter made squealed noises as Luz screamed, “best friend slumber parties,” before heading towards the kitchen for seconds. 

With the girls gone, Thomas turned to face you once more, his hand still holding yourself tightly.

“This,” he said, pulling your joined hands into view and kissing at your knuckles, drawing your whole body in closer, “feel right. It does. It really, really does.” 

He brushed his mouth once again upon your fingers, dropping it as he heard the footsteps of the girls rejoining the table, but something in his eyes as he continued to glance over at you ever now and again throughout the rest of the meal, let you know that there was a promise in those words, one he might not be able to make just yet, but one he intended to keep eventually, if you were patient enough to let him. 

All tags: @fangirlandnerd​, @aerdnandreaa​, @thisisbullshytt​,  @cancerousjojian​, @whovianayesha​, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy​, @luna-xxxxx​, @sleepylunarwolf​, @starryrevelations​, @potter-thinking​, @all-by-myself98​, @bananafosters-and-books​, @cutie-bug​, @igotmadskills​, @hazelandcoconuts​, @yallgotkik​, @amberkay284​, @the-new-galahad​, @13ofjuly​, @daft-not-punk​

[michaelmalloryfanfic-blog]

fic update: o thou, destroyer named - chapter v

they are like two wounded animals, circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first

. millory au .

post links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

ao3 links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

chapter summary:

Time to call Zaddy Zatan! Also I know I said Mead would be in this chapter but it was taking too long to get through this part. Next time. It's short but I promise, it felt like fucking dying trying to write this part.

a/n:

guess which bitch knows how to use google translate! fun times. anyway latin is fucked. this ain't beta'd and super short but I had to finish grad school apps. I'll get around to beta-ing this chapter eventually. Aaaaaaallllsooooooooo. So I know that in the show, Michael calls his zaddy on the phone like...right after his interview with Mallory but just pretend that its happening now. You know I’m a dumbass who can’t remember shit right? You think I give a fuck????Also. I’ve finally got an end to this fic and lemme tell you, I can’t wait to emotionally ruin someone’s day.

With a soft tug of the hand he has in his grasp, Mallory rises to her feet. Even in her black, sensible heels she barely reaches his shoulders when standing. Her hand in his own is completely encompassed. She is such a tiny thing. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm with a careful tenderness that she thought him incapable of. It is as though he was handling a porcelain doll.

Michael had always been fascinated with dolls. Once, when he was still small and able to be manhandled, Constance had taken him to a toy store and he had instantly gravitated towards the brightly colored figures. Their tiny smiling faces matched with their impassive, lifeless eyes, they felt somehow familiar. But it was their smallness that had enraptured him, how easily they fit in his hand. He wanted to touch every part of them, run his fingers over their smooth, blushed cheeks, feel the sleekness of their artificial hair. Something that would hold still and let him pour over it, let him devour it.

But Constance would have none of that. She had shaken the precious thing from his greedy hands. When he resisted she had delivered a swift, teeth-clattering slap to his face. It had shocked him so thoroughly that he did not even cry out. Constance espoused something about him being “goddamned queer” then she had yanked him out of the store.

They enter the darkness of Outpost 3 and Michael takes the lead. The ink blackness of the hallways are an ocean and Michael is a shark. He moves without hesitation, Mallory tries to keep up. Once or twice, she trips over her feet. Ever the part-time gentleman, Michael pauses whens he stumbles and waits patiently for her to gather herself. Everytime, she glances up at his apologetically but he never returns her glance. He is focused on the journey forward.

It takes them five more minutes of walking before a faint glow comes into view illuminating the end of the hall where it turns both left and right. The light comes from the right and when they turn the corner a door comes into view. The door they come to is like many of the doors in Outpost 3, tall, pitch black, with shiny golden door knobs. On both sides, a candle with in a simple glass fixture around it had been lit. Mallory has passed doors like these many times in the past year without much notice but this door, she is certain she’s never seen this particular door for above it there are words, carved ominously into the stone wall and painted in black.

Homo homini lupus

Mallory reads over the words over and over. The Boundary in her head burns and grows brittle at the sight so she turns away from the words above the door. It is Michael who disentangles their arms. He takes her hand in his own, again so gentle it turns her stomach and places it at her side. Then he opens the door.

The first thing that Mallory notices when they enter the room is the heat. The door leads into a short, narrow anteroom and from there it opens into a blazing circular chamber. The room is crowded with candles. They line the walls, are placed here and there on the floor along the perimeter. Besides that, the room was empty. It is so bright and warm beyond the door that it is almost unbearable at first. Mallory has only known darkness and cold for over a year now and all this heat and light makes her feel feverish. Her skin crawls and she hesitates to enter. Langdon enters at once with ease. He has no fear of the light. Michael glances back only once to smile that secret smile at her.

“So skittish of the light, Mallory darling,” he says over his shoulder. “Come here, you fickle creature. Come to me.”

And she goes to him. Not just because he calls her a creature or darling but also because she is suddenly aware of how cold she is. She feels so utterly cold and not just now or during the year she’s spent in Outpost 3. She’s been cold her entire life. Mallory isn’t stupid she knows that there is something missing in her. She thinks that something must have been taken from her and left her a Mallory is like a wind-up toy that was built missing a sprocket and though she can still walk around, sing her tune, the bulbs all light up but something just doesn’t click.

Harmatia, whispers the thing in her mind and Mallory pushes it down.

She passes through the doorway, the Latin words passing overhead. She makes quick work of the antechamber and to her surprise, she finds Langdon undressing. He stands in the center of the room with his back to her. First is his long, black coat. As he works the fine dark buttons, he speaks.

“Did you know that years before the initial bombfall, this place used to be a boy’s boarding school,” he says still facing away from her.

He observes the room as he finishes with his buttons. The chamber is about ten feet in diameter and it has a ceiling so high that it is lost in darkness even with all the light down below.

“The rooms you’ve been sleeping in, the kitchen, the lounges, they all used to be part of the school.”

“Is it normal to have a school underground?” Mallory drones, years of working for the young, rich, and vapid has made her adept at meaningless small-talk.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know it isn’t.”

He shrugs off his coat and it falls to the floor.

“What kind of school was it?” she replies, unperturbed by his admonishment.

She stares at his coat on the floor, crumpled and dejected. Years working as a personal assistant to wealthy socialites has given her a discerning eye. It’s obviously an expensive piece, well-made, expensive cotton but he tosses it off as though it is nothing. Mallory considers picking it up, folding it neatly over her arm and waiting patiently aside for him to continue. It’s a compulsion. Coco had been a thoughtless, messy individual but she also hated mess. She’d undress in a hurry, tossing designer and couture pieces about only to turn around and vehemently ask Mallory why her John Galliano gown was on the floor. However, Langdon gives no indication that he expects to pick up his coat or anything else.

“A finishing school of sorts,” he says as he starts on his shirt, the cuffs, which is as fine and dark as his coat. “It was very exclusive, clandestine .”

“A big, black cylinder sticking out of the ground in bumbfuck California reads as clandestine to you?”

That causes him pause and he twists his upper body just a bit to look at her fully. His mouth is a pressed, straight line and he arches one eyebrow. For a second, she thinks he’s going to admonish her again maybe even hit her. Towards the end, the Purples had become less squeamish about physical displays of displeasure. She had seen, more than once, a Grey laid out on the floor by a Purple. End of the world will do that to people. But, he is impassive only for a second then a wicked grin splits his mouth and he laughs.

“It isn’t exactly subtle is it?” he says once he done laughing at her. “But then again, I wasn’t consulted when they were drawing up the blueprints.”

Mallory is a little taken aback. For some reason, laughing just didn’t seem to be something he was even capable of doing. Her surprise must show on her face because he laughs a little harder after seeing her. He seems younger than the gruesome figure who had first arrived in Outpost 3 a few days ago. When he had first arrived, he had been singular. A grim emissary, Death riding in on his horse. But now she is watching as his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. He looks like a boy. How old is he really? Early twenties, maybe mid. They could be the same age.

“Do you know what this particular room was used for?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Disciplinary action.”

He shoulders his left sleeve off and then the right. This too is dropped to the floor besides the coat.

“You saw the plaque above the door? Do you know what it means? I don’t imagine they offer high school level Latin in Nowhere. Homo homini lupus, Man is a wolf to man.”

From his pocket, he produces a knife. It fits perfectly in his hand and he opens it slowly. The blade is strange, rounded and black. Its finish is matte, like charcoal in the candlelight.

“Man is a wolf to man,” he repeats and turns to face her, knife in his right hand.

This is the point that anyone with an ounce of self preservation should know to make a run for it.

“A fancy way to say, ‘dog eat dog’.”

He’s still smiling when he plunges the knife into his left wrist and Mallory’s jaw drops. He drags the blade up until a red line splits his arm all the way up his bicep. Then the blood begins the pour from the gash. It’s so red and bright against his golden skin. It falls like water, so quickly that she thinks that this cannot be real, this cannot be right. He hardly seems to notice and gives the other arm the same treatment.

This fucked up. Mallory knows this. This. Is. Fucked. And she should be horrified. She should scream or run, do something other than gape at the sight of him, arm bathed almost entirely in red and dripping, his eyes like alight with a kind of frantic energy. And yet, she doesn’t feel or do any of these things. Her breathing is labored and her heart rate has picked up and yet, she feels somewhat at east. Something about all that blood, she’s drowning in it. She’s not anywhere near afraid. No, she's fascinated.

He begins to speak.

“O pater foedus impius, Et meas, quas fudi sanguinem meum, in gloriam.”

The air thickens as he falls to his knees.

“Corpus iacentis ad pedes.”

Spreading his arms out wide, palms to the floor, he begins to bow. His head dipping low.

“Mea est anima tua.”

With that, he is completely folded in on himself. His arms are stretched out in front of him, bloody palms laying flat against the stone floor. Though not especially muscular, Langdon is certainly on the taller side. His shoulders are wide. He cuts an imposing figure but now he is laid out before her. It is strange to see such a large man made to seem so small and humbled.

Silence falls and Mallory is vaguely aware that perhaps Langdon may be in trouble. His body is still, blood still seeping out of him. It drips onto the floor. The human body can only lose so much blood before it’s K.O. She knows she should do something. Pressure on the wound. Elevate the limbs. But then, something rumbles through the room, not a sound, not even a physical feeling. It is something in the soul and growls. Her stomach drops. He begins to speak again but this time is different. His voice is harsh, nearly cracking. He is impassioned.

“Audi me, Pater. Audi fili tuorum fidelium. Quaerite me sapientia tua et ductu peregit opus in hac hora mea. Invoco te. Invoco te.”

The air seems to go still. What was once a room crackling with energy, is suddenly drained.

“Invoco te,” he demands.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, all the flames of the candles flare. They climb up to nearly a foot tall then roll back down. His head snaps up, eyes completely dark. She gasps. His mouth drops open as if he is stunned as well. He is seeing something beyond her.

“Father?” he says like a child.

The flames flare once more, higher than before and Mallory shields her face from the heat. A gust of wind rushes past her and then she is floating in darkness.

“Langdon?”

Nothing. Every candle has been extinguished and she had been plunged into pitch darkness. Her first instinct is to turn back towards the antechamber. If she can make it to the door, there should still be light outside. She turns and reaches out, trying to find a wall, the door, anything but her hands find nothing. She steps forward and slips. She hits the floor hard and cries out. A warm, metallic taste blooms in her mouth. Her tongue teeth ache. The floor is wet, sticky beneath her hand. She knows what it is. The smell hits her and the taste is in her mouth. Mallory closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. She remembers the candles on the wall, the candles on the floor. In her mind, she reaches out.

Please. Please.

Invoco te, whispers the thing in her head and she feels warmth seep into her.

Not from the blood. The blood has gone cold at this point, congealing beneath her hands and knees. It’s something else. Like the sun, like a fire. It is blooming in her chest like someone has breathed hotly between her breasts.

“Invoco te,” she whispers and opens her eyes to light.

Not blazing and bright like before, only a few candles have been lit but it’s enough to see the outline of the door in front of her. It is enough to see the blood on the floor. She crawls forward a little ways, she’s halfway through the antechamber when she looks back.

She could leave him. He is laid out on his side, facing away from her, completely still. There’s not much hope left for him. He’s close to being, if not already, bled out. He’s a lost cause. There’s no point.

Leave him. Let him die. Homo homini lupus.

But Mallory is no wolf. She is thinking of his eyes and how they crinkle at the sides. She is thinking of his mouth and how it smiles crooked. Of his laugh. Of his perfect face that is so boyish when unburdened by whatever grand role he is playing. She thinks of the way he said father.

Mallory slips and stumbles to her knees. She tries to stand but she quickly Her hands are covered in dark blood. Her knees and shins are even worse but she crawls forward.

“Langdon,” she hisses at him. “You have to get up.”

From where she’s standing, Mallory can’t tell if he’s still breathing.

“Michael?”

Her arms and legs wobble as she crawls forward. The potential that he’s dead is becoming more and more likely. The floor is slick beneath her but she continues forward. He’s less than a foot in front and she can see him clearly even in the dim light. His chest rises and falls and Mallory’s breath catches in her throat. Then it happens again and she bursts forward.

“Michael, can you hear me,” she takes his shoulders in her hand and after some effort turns him over into her lap. “We have to put pressu-”

The wounds are gone. There’s no trace of the long gashes he’d inflicted on himself other than the blood. The blood, it’s everywhere. On her dress, across his chest. His head is in her lap, somehow his hair, even coated in blood, is beautiful. The gold in it still shines true. They are a dark red pieta.

“Did you see?” he whispers.

Mallory is still dumbfounded that she missed his question. His hand on her arm is what shakes her out of her stupor. He is gazing up at her now. His eyes are back to their normal blue, so clear. He lifts his hand from her arm to ghost his fingers over her face streaking her red. Mallory balks. The bitter smell of blood fills her nose and turns her stomach.

“Did you see him, Mallory? My father?”

He sounds like a fevered child and even more so when he laughs at the sight of her face.

“It looks like you’re crying, tears of blood,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter. “Don’t cry, Mallory.”

He sighs and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Help,” she whispers though her voice barely carries.

“Someone please help us.”

Aaaaaaand. yarp. It's fanfic writing month! so I'm gonna try to bust out as many chapters as possible for you guys. My goal is an update a week (not including this chapter). So drop me a line. I know I seem glib but honestly, your comments are the only thing keeping me going so lemme know yall are out there, yeah?

Next time:

Mead gets her say.

[svguavajelly]

Carnaval

In Ecuador, Carnaval is celebrated by spraying each other with foam, similar to shaving cream in consistency, which comes in all colors and by getting each other wet. In some towns they put raw eggs on each other, and flour; in another town they smear mud on each other on the banks of the river.

It used to be that foreigners were the main targets for Cuencanos to get wet, but the city outlawed the practice of soaking strangers a few years back. However, expat friends have been hit by water balloons walking to work, and nearly had buckets of water dumped on them from balconies. Now, generally people celebrate with their families and get each other wet.

At Tomu and Jade’s preschool they celebrated by throwing confetti (picadillo) on each other & putting curly paper streamers (serpentina) around each others’ necks.

Everyone has Monday & Tuesday off from work, and almost everything is closed.

My friend Lorena invited us over for lunch on the Saturday of Carnaval. We had amazing food: sancocho (pork short ribs), potatoes with a peanut butter sauce, grilled chicken, hominy, a pea/corn salad, a green salad that I brought, fresh blackberry juice, rice, and I’m probably forgetting something. Her 2 kids, their partners, and her 3 grandkids were all there as well. It was her son Carlos’ birthday, so later we had cake, coffee, jello, and canelazos (a typical Ecuadorian alcoholic drink, like a hot toddy with cinnamon).

The kids sprayed each other with cariocas (colored foam), and Riki and I were there to observe until Lorena began to spray us as well! She didn’t take it easy on us, either. :) The foam stings if it gets in your eyes, which happened to Tomu. We actually didn’t get each other wet (outside with the hose) because it was pouring down rain all afternoon. I was relieved because I didn’t have another change of clothes.

We had a lovely time with Lorena—we felt like family, included in the family gathering. That was actually the first time we’ve been invited to lunch at an Ecuadorian’s house. Lunch is the big meal of the day here.

Lorena’s daughter, Maria Lorena, works for the government, and she told us that on Friday all of her employees were waiting for her when she walked out to her car, and they soaked her with the hose. Then she reciprocated, of course.

On Tuesday of Carnaval, Fabiola came and took Tomu and Scarlett to the park with her kids Favio & Jacob, to “play Carnaval”. Her kids had water guns, but they ended up just doing the foam because Tomu & Scarlett didn’t have water guns.

[dustofinsanity]

Q&A Tag Game

I was tagged by @kvvmtaehyung​. Once again, thank you, kitten. ♡

Rules:  You have to answer 11 questions and write 11 new questions.

1. Do you have a favorite quote, if so what is it and why? - From a movie, it’s “It can’t rain all the time.” It’s from my favorite movie, The Crow, and I love this quote because it means that life can be tough sometimes but, after rain comes sunshine. From a song, it’s “Dream until your dreams come true” from Dream On by Aerosmith. This is my favorite song and, for me, it means that we have to believe in our dreams. And, I also like the quote “Homo Homini Lupus”. I don’t know who said that but it means “ Man is wolf to man”.

2. If you were given the chance to have no emotions, would you take the chance? - No because I love my emotions even if it hurts sometimes.

3. What is your favorite memory? Can you give the details? - I have a lot of favorite memories but I think one of the best is when I bought a special Chrismas gifts for my mom with my own money for the first time. She thought that she would get the DVD of Français pour une Nuit by Metallica (my dear mom is a metalhead ^w^) but I told her that I had a problem with the DVD (it wasn’t true) and she couldn’t have it. She was a little sad but she opened her gifts (the first one was her favorite perfume) and after, she opened the second gift... And she saw that I bought her the complete box of Français pour une Nuit with the t-shirt, the pass, etc... She looked like a little girl with a thousand stars in her eyes.

4. Do you know any other languages (plus your native language)? Why did you learn new languages? - I can speak english (even if I really need to improve my skills). I’d like to speak korean, japanese and chinese/mandarin because I listen to a lot of asian songs and I love this languages.

5. Do you remember any of your dreams? If you do, what’s your favorite dream? - I don’t really remember my dreams but I remember some of my nightmares.

6. In your culture, are there any superstitions that you always remember? What is it? - Don’t open a umbrella in a house, don’t walk under a ladder, don’t plant a knife in breed.

7. What is something you really like, but you’re afraid people will judge you for liking it? - I love to talk alone but I don’t really give a fuck about what people can think about me so if I want to talk alone, I do it.

8. If you could have any occupation in the world, and you won’t get judged for it, what would it be? - See previous answer.

9. Are you afraid of dying? - No because death is a new start for me.

10. What is one thing you wish people around you understood? - That war means nothing and that idols have a private life too.

11. You can make your own question here and answer it, for me. - My favorite Pokémon? Piiiiiii... kaaaaa... chuuuuuuuuuu!!

my questions, now!

1. Who is your favorite fictional character and why?

2. Do you have a bad habit? If yes, which one?

3. If you could do the craziest thing in the world, what would it be?

4. What’s your favorite candy?

5. If you want children, can you tell me the names you’d want to give them?

6. Do you like bubbles? (I’m crazy for bubbles!!)

7. What’s your favorite meal?

8. If I say “childhood”, what’s the first thing you think about?

9. Do you have a favorite number? (mine is 9 ^w^)

10. Do you have pets? If yes, what’s their names and do you want more pets?

11. Do you have a lucky charm? What is it?

And I TAG @bubblegumprincess95 @kvvmtaehyung @whatevasss @junghoeseokiemain @aomgworldwide @artiowyvern and everyone who wanna do it. ♡

[meatismurderbutalsodelicious]

How to Make a Simple, Savory Menudo

To put if mildly, Menudo, a weekend breakfast staple in Mexico and the Chicano United States, is an acquired taste.

Mostly because it’s made predominantly with beef stomach or “honeycomb” tripe; menudo is a slow-cooked spicy, savory recipe also known to include beef hoof, with beef tendon added to the mix for good measure.

It’s working class, farm house food that despite using what are considered by many as off-beat or under appreciated cuts of meat, is actually quite delicious and perfect for cold winter mornings.

Beef tripe and beef shin

Full disclosure: Growing up in an Irish family, my grandmother made tripe—simmered in a broth of milk with onions and white pepper, which, I must say, was as disgusting as it sounds. (Sorry, Granny.)

This form of child abuse, of course turned my siblings and I off the offal for most of our formative years and adult lives. 

However, I became reacquainted with beef stomach in 2010 while working in Hong Kong. It was at a local dim sum restaurant in Hong Kong’s North Point neighborhood, not far from where CNN then had its offices at Taikoo Place in Quarry Bay. 

A typical local dim sum restaurant with round family-style tables, overstuffed chairs and rococo chandeliers, I’d wandered in one Saturday morning and haphazardly ordered breakfast by pointing at other diner’s tables or from the small English menu.

While successfully ordering crystal dumplings, sticky rice and spring rolls, an order of tripe, much to my alarm, with thin strips of the offal in a clear chicken and vegetable broth was also delivered to my table.

What can I say? It was delicious and it actually inspired me moving forward to not just order tripe at dim sum restaurants, but to order menudo at Mexican restaurants when visiting family and friends in Los Angeles or San Francisco.

I was hooked. 

Being in Ireland, it is difficult to get all the ingredients for a traditional menudo—some recipes I found use guajillo and Pasillo chilies; other called for a cleaned beef hoof (?!?) and quite a bit of tendon. I poached ideas and solutions from multiple YouTube and foodie websites for this recipe.

But, there’s a Mexican products store in central Dublin that delivers, so I ordered supplies and with the help of a local butcher, created what I would consider a basic menudo for beginners. 

OK, enough jibber-jabber, let’s get cooking!

Ingredients

3-pounds of beef or “honeycomb” tripe (beef stomach)

3-pounds of beef shin or other cut of beef that’s thick with collagen or tendon

1/4-cup of dried Mexican Oregano (or regular if you have it)

1 24-ounce (or comparable) size can of hominy (white corn kernels)

6- to 8-cups of water

1/4-pound of dried Ancho chilies (seeded)

1/4-pound of dried Arbol chilies (seeded)

1 white onion, whole

4 to 6 cloves of garlic

2 bay leaves

1/4-cup of apple cider vinegar

Salt to taste

First, prep your meats and vegetables. For this recipe we’re going to use two large pots. One for boiling the tripe and creating a basic broth, the second for searing the beef shin and assembling the final dish for cooking.

I prepared the tripe for cooking by slicing it into thin strips about a half-inch wide by two to three inches, placing the sliced tripe in a bowl then pouring the 1/4-cup of vinegar over and giving it a healthy mix. Leave for 10 minutes.

Beef stomach, being an organ meat, may or may not have a strong, gamey smell to it that, left unattended, can influence the flavor of the final product. Marinating in vinegar helps clean and soften the tripe, as well as remove that scent.

For assemblage and cooking, I used my trusty Dutch oven. Normally a stove-top dish, I finished my menudo in the oven to ensure the beef shin is tasty and fork-tender.

I cut the beef shin into two-inch cubes, making sure that each piece has a good amount of tendon and cartilage attached. This is where a lot of the flavor resides, as well as acting as a thickening agent for the broth. 

Now, rinse your marinated tripe in cold water and add to the second pot. I use a simple stock pot, add your six to eight cups of water and throw in the lime, which you’ve cut in half. 

The lime helps soften the tripe and remove the impurities as you bring the tripe up to a rolling simmer. Let it simmer for about 15 minutes.

Keep an eye on the tripe, repeatedly use a spoon or a fine-mesh strainer to remove the proteins and impurities that rise to the top. This water will become the base broth of your menudo.

You need to start preparing the chillies. I used two types, but you can see in some recipes up to three varieties. They add various notes of spice, heat and smokiness. 

Menudo is spicy and savory, but not searingly hot. So, you need to crack or peel open your chillies and remove the seeds. 

The flesh of the dried Ancho chillies are somewhat sticky when you open them so you have to scrape out the seeds, either with your hands or a spoon. 

For  the Arbols I just broke off the stems and shook out the seeds.

Now, while the tripe simmers add vegetable oil to the bottom of the Dutch oven and turn on the heat. 

You want the oil shimmering, then add the beef shin to sear and brown; you don’t want it to burn or completely cook, but brown and release flavor. 

Season the beef with crushed black pepper and sea or kosher salt, whichever floats your boat. Then with a spider strainer, start adding the tripe to the beef.

Once all the tripe is added to the meat, use a strainer to clear out any remaining foam from the tripe broth, as well as the lime halves, they will have served their purpose.

It’s now pretty straightforward: Ladle in the tripe broth until you cover the combination of tripe and beef. Add the oregano, the onion, garlic and the bay leaves.

Bring the pot up to a nice simmer, you are now going to add the two final ingredients before you either let the menudo simmer for three hours on the stove-top or, as I prefer, let it simmer in the oven for two hours.

You should have at least one cup of the broth left from simmering the tripe. Add this cup to your bowl of seeded chiles. Let them rest for 10 minutes.

Turn your oven on to about C200-degrees/F390-degrees to pre-heat.

Pour the chillies and broth into a blender or food processor and blend into a rich, red paste. Don’t hold back, you want it blended as fine as you can make it; next, force the chili paste through a strainer into the menudo.

Use a spatula to press the paste through; also rinse the processor or blender with a cup of hot water or the remainder of your tripe broth so you don’t lose any of this amazing flavor.

Next, open your can of hominy, pour out the water and add the white corn to your simmering pot, too.

Bring the menudo with the chilies and hominy back up to a simmer, stirring regularly to integrate both the chili paste and distribute the hominy, tripe and beef chunks. 

Once it’s simmering, I put on the lid and put the menudo in the oven for two hours. I leave the lid on for the first hour, then I take it out of the oven, give it a quick stir and taste it for seasoning.

When I return the menudo for the last hour, I leave the lid slightly ajar, to release steam and help thicken the broth.

Stove-top can do two-hours simmering, lid on, with one hour simmering with lid slightly ajar.

Once cooked, I would recommend leaving it with a lid firmly sealed for one day, either in the oven or on the stove top (or put it in the fridge if you wish). You really want the flavors to meld and the meat and tripe to be fork tender.

Serve the menudo with the following condiments—your favorite hot sauce or salsa, a squeeze of fresh limes, some finely chopped onions, dried oregano and finely chopped cilantro. 

I usually have mine with steamed corn tortillas, and if you want to go all out, try it with a Michelada beer—any good Mexican pale beer served on the rocks with tomato juice, a squeeze of lime, a drop or two of Worcestershire sauce and served in a chilled glass rimmed with Mexican Tajin spices.

Enjoy!

[thebittervampire]

10, 11, 12? I hope you feel better soon 🌻💚

Thank you so much! Yes, I hope I’ll get rid of my granny back soon, with a good doctor…

ask me about When the wolves cry out!

10. What’s a line of dialogue you’re particularly proud of?In this world, lycanthropy isn’t a curse, it’s more like some handicap: werewolves can live amongst men, but they’re unable to join armies and do other things (that illness is given through the blood). During all the book, I play with a quote I love: homo homini lupus, and Heylgard wishes nothing but convinces Rodhan he has to let it go, to be a wolf.So once, she asked him: “Why are you ashamed of being a werewolf when all men are beasts anyway?”

11. Which line from the novel most represents it as a whole?I haven’t write the whole part yet, but there’s an important moment when Heylgard shows more about her goals, and it says a lot about Rodhan and her. Sadly, it can’t be one sentence…

So, first, in French:

Il l'observa, effrayé : son visage était impassible, ses yeux avaient la dureté du métal. Heylgard avait la prestance d'une reine.« Je suis une battante, Rodhan : si le sang doit couler, alors il coulera.— Pourquoi doit-il couler ?— Pour notre avenir. »Heylgard avait le poing tendu devant elle et ses doigts s'écartèrent tout d'un coup, libérant un médaillon rond en argent. Rond comme le ventre d'une déesse. Rond comme la perfection d'un monde. Rond comme la pleine lune.Les cheveux de la sorcière devinrent alors sombres dans la nuit, imitant les nuages qui balaient les étoiles, ses grains de beauté se mettaient à brûler pour être des constellations et sous ces artifices, le visage d'Heylgard disparaissait. Face à Rodhan naissait un nouveau ciel, supplanté par le vrai au-dessus.Cette sphère de métal lourd lui tombait en plein visage, et sous l'impact, ses genoux fléchirent. Rodhan sentit son propre corps devenir étranger ; son enveloppe n'avait plus de place pour lui. Des pensées sauvages s'infiltraient sous son crâne, poussant plus vite que la mauvaise herbe. Elles taisaient sa raison et sa logique comme le lierre étouffe les rosiers.Il restait neuf jours avant la prochaine pleine lune ; la peur était la meilleure des maîtresses et elle lui avait appris à compter les jours avec précision. Pourtant, à l'aide d'un sortilège qui paraissait simple, Heylgard invoquait une lune pleine et dangereuse pour l'homme.Convaincu par l'illusion, le corps frigorifié commença à se métamorphoser.

Then in English:

He watched her, frightened: her face was impassive, her eyes had the hardness of metal. Heylgard had the stature of a queen.“I’m a fighter, Rodhan: if the blood must flow, then it will flow.”“Why does it have to flow?”“For our future.”Heylgard had her fist stretched out in front of her and her fingers unfolded all at once, releasing a round silver medallion. Round like the womb of a goddess. Round like a perfect world. Round like a full moon.The witch’s hair then became dark in the night, imitating the clouds that sweep the stars, her moles began to burn, turning into constellations and, under these artifices, Heylgard’s face disappeared.In front of Rodhan, a new sky was born, supplanted by the real one above.It was like this sphere of heavy metal hit him, and under the impact, his knees flexed. Rodhan felt his own body become a stranger; his envelope had no room for him anymore. Wild thoughts infiltrated under his skull, growing faster than weed. They silenced reason and logic as ivy chokes rose bushes.There remained nine days before the next full moon; fear was the best teacher and it had taught him to count the days accurately. Yet, while using a spell that seemed so simple, Heylgard invoked a dangerous and full moon.Convinced by the illusion, the refrigerated body began to metamorphose.

12. Who are your character faceclaims?Oh I love this one! I’m going to use the hidden under line option, so I’m sorry if it doesn’t work and turn this ask into a long post…

Let’s start with Rodhan as I tried to draw him. the most important things: very red, long-long nose (and always cold), always looks anxious.

Same with Heylgard, and I also created her on Black Desert Online because I liked the character creator and couldn’t find someone who looks like her, but still! She’s not so thin, she much paler and she has a red braid in her white hair.

For Sirdi, I don’t have a face but a voice instead, and it’s Loreena McKennitt’s one, for it’s deep and haunting, wise and peaceful.

But my favourite is definitly Veilt. She looks old and young at the same time, large jaw and sort of crushed nose, still she has beautiful eyes. Her hair is dark and long at the beginning, but then, she cut it herself in a poor way later.

[mitcheskitchen]

Postponed because of Oregons 2019 “Snowpacalypse” a few of us got to revisit a  piece of @shuckportland last Sunday through its Iron Fire Brine event. . . For those of you who still dont know; shuck Portland is an amazing week long event helping highlight the conservation of oysters and their natural habitats by showcasing the flavor and diversity these mollusks have to offer. . . We all assembled in the the tasting room which opens up into the backlot @giganticbrew who was pouring for the event. There to greet us was an ample raw bar loaded with everything needed to turn up your oyster experience. The smell of smoke playing with the fresh rain, made for a cozy outdoor feel. Our host were tending fires in hand crafted metal grills made by @del.fuego.ironworks full of oysters. We were then invited to introduce our smoky grilled bivalves to the butter bar. Yeah!!! Almost  just what it sound like , except,these butters are infused with the kind of things that give you that eye rolling experience when added to your mouth. . . . The afternoon closed with a savory seafood posole filled with @three_sisters_nixtamal hominy, blue and manilla clams in an burnt onion dashi simmered in dutch ovens in the fire that our host had been stoking all afternoon. Have you ever showed up to an event knowing you were going to have a good time ,but because of whatever combination of magic and good karma you leave with more. Maybe that more is  an elevated sense of well being or a renewed confidence in your fellow man Shuck Portland ‘s Iron Fire Brine event put on by @tournantpdx chef Jarrett Foster, Mona Johnson and chef Joe Rodriguez with the help of @olympiaoysterbar chef Maylin Chavez @flyingfishpdx Lyf Gildersleeve and @shityouseeatcashnccarry was all that and bag (or 20) of oystery. (at Gigantic Brewing Company) https://www.instagram.com/p/BwJQZ-5A_TQ/?igshid=sz7xfyqsed5x

[salutethepig]

A paean to pozole; an homage to hominy

Pozole is a dish originating from Mexico (where it means “hominy”) and mentioned as far back as the Florentine Codex by Bernardino de Sahagún in the late 16th Century (a set of writings which looks as though they could be a hugely fascinating, albeit huge time-sink, read). Since maize was considered a sacred plant for the Aztecs and other inhabitants of Meso-America, pozole was at first intended to be made and consumed on special (read “religious“) occasions. This conjunction of maize (usually whole hominy kernels) and a meat, together in a single dish, is of no little scholarly interest, as it’s thought that the ancient Americans believed their gods had fashioned them (i.e. us humans) out of masa (cornmeal dough).

The maize story is going to be more fully explored on Salute The Grains; so keep an eye out for that piece arriving (reasonably) soon.

A page from the Florentine Codex

For the purposes of this piece, we’re going to be staying in and around this geographic area (although the principles are the same anywhere on the planet, amongst the peasant communities) where the tripes and the offcuts would go into Menudo. Organ meats would be stewed and turned into blood sausage. But all the other stuff, the super-weird, super-offcuts, are the bits that go into a pozole. That means the head, the ears, bones, trotters, indeed, anything that’s left. When it comes to cooking and eating a whole pig, pozole sits at the very end of the “break it down and eat it all” path.

In a book that I hugely enjoy and continually re-read for ideas as well as just the plain quality of the writing, Wes Avila, author of “Guerrilla Tacos: Recipes from the Streets of L.A” says of it:

 You know your pozole is ready to eat when the pig ear is tender and you can bite right through it. The ears take the longest to get tender; it goes from being the texture of a piece of leather to that of a gummy bear. We make this for Christmas at my dad’s house. You have to skim like crazy the whole time it’s cooking because all that funk and all those impurities will rise to the surface. When you put the leftovers in the fridge, after a few hours, you should be able to cut through the soup like pâté. This is a crazy-delicious soup that you’d make after slaughtering a pig and after you’ve used everything good from that pig. There is going to be a pig’s foot in this soup. This is a gnarly soup! Do not make it if you are the timid type. You’re gonna need a big— 32-quart— stockpot and some calcium hydroxide, a.k.a. pickling lime, edible lime, hydrated lime, or slaked lime (if you are unable to source locally, you can order this online). If you don’t want to cook the dried hominy yourself, you can substitute 8 cups prepared hominy.

This recipe — reproduced untouched — will apparently serve 24 people; I haven’t even got that many friends, so you’ll just have to cook it and judge if he’s right:

1 cup calcium hydroxide 5 cups dried Anson Mills pencil cob hominy 2 tablespoons lard 8 guajillo chiles, stemmed and seeded 2 dried pasilla chiles, stemmed and seeded 4 dried red New Mexican chiles, stemmed and seeded 4 chiles cascabel, stemmed and seeded 8 black peppercorns 3 whole cloves Kosher salt 12 Roma tomatoes, halved 4 white onions, rough cut 4 bay leaves 8 garlic cloves, peeled 1 cup white vinegar, or as needed ½ pig head (about 5 pounds), ear reserved 4 pig’s feet 1 rack of pork spareribs (about 2 pounds) 5 pounds bone-in pork shoulder, cut into 2- to 3-inch chunks (leave about 1 inch of meat around the bone piece) 7 pig ears (including the one from the ½ head), cut into 1-inch pieces Shredded cabbage and sliced radishes for garnishing Roasted Habanero-Serrano Salsa for garnishing

In a large (10- or 16-quart) stainless-steel pot over high heat, bring 8 quarts water to a simmer. Add the calcium hydroxide and stir with a spoon until it is dissolved. Add the dried hominy and cook for 2 minutes. Remove the pot from the heat, cover with the lid, and let stand on the stove top overnight.

The next day, there will be a thin cloudy layer on top of the water. Pour that off. Using a mesh strainer, drain the water and transfer the hominy into another large pot. Fill that pot with fresh water and, as it’s filling, agitate with your hands to remove the skins from the hominy kernels and any excess calcium. When the water gets cloudy, pour off the water. Repeat this process three times, or until all the calcium and skins are removed.

In the same pot, cover the hominy with cold, clean water. Bring it just to a simmer— a very, very low simmer, just slightly bubbling— and cook, uncovered, for 5 hours. Stir occasionally and add more water if the water level starts dropping below the kernels. After 5 hours, pull out a few kernels and rinse. Taste the hominy, it should still have a slight bite but be completely cooked. Drain off the hot liquid and give the hominy one more rinse in cold water. Set aside.

In a medium saucepan over medium heat, melt the lard. Add all the chiles, the peppercorns, cloves, and 1 tablespoon salt and toast until aromatic, about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes, onions, bay leaves, and garlic and cook until the vegetables are softened and breaking apart under the weight of a wooden spoon, about 20 minutes. It will be thick but you want it thick. Once the tomatoes are soft, transfer to a blender and blend until very smooth— blend the shit out of it. Return the blended mixture to the saucepan. Add the vinegar and cook over medium heat for 2 minutes, stirring. Season with more salt. Set aside.

Add the ½ pig head, pig’s feet, and spareribs to a 32-quart stockpot, cover with cold water, and place over high heat. Once the water boils, turn off the heat. You should see some impurities floating in the water. Drain the water and run cold water over the meats, rubbing your hands over the head and feet to dislodge any impurities.

Set the meats aside and clean the pot— it’s going to be gunky so you have to wash it. Then, return the meats to that same pot along with the pork shoulder and pig ears. Cover with cold water and bring up the heat until the water is simmering. Simmer for 4 hours, adding water as needed in order to keep all the meat covered. Once the meat is tender, stir in the chile-tomato mixture. Add the hominy, and season with salt. Serve the soup garnished with a lot of shredded cabbage, sliced radishes, and as much salsa as you like. Do not pick out the bones. Go to town on a pig hoof!

A paean to pozole; an homage to hominy was originally published on Salute The Pig

[naturecoaster]

Cooking Cracker Cane Syrup

Sugar cane is a tropical perennial grass that has three main varieties – chewing, crystal and syrup. In Central Florida, the sugar cane crop is planted in January and harvested in November. Cane syrup has been a part of the Nature Coast region for generations, with pioneer families in the 1800s and early 1900s traditionally using it as their main, and often their only sweetener.

Sugar cane grows on the Melton farm, ready for harvest.

Steve and Sandy Melton at the cane cooking kettle. Steve and Sandra Melton invited me to their farm in Dade City to participate in a cane cooking. There were 20-30 people there throughout the day and it was such a joy to be a part of that I want to share it with you. Steve Melton calls himself, “the Cowboy Poet,” and he is a true Southern gentleman, raising crops and livestock on 1,500 acres with his three brothers and their parents who are well into their 80s and early 90s. Steve’s passion to share agricultural heritage with others shows in everything he does. His “Melton Machinery Museum,” where he restores and collects the machinery that made farming so much easier in the early 1900s, is on his property, but it is not open for public tours. His wife Sandy truly has the gift of hospitality, providing refreshments and geniality for us all. Arriving at 8:30 am, we were introduced to the Petter family; Debbie, Tim, and their son Nicholas; who had donated their grandfather’s Columbus No. 90 Sugar Mill a few months earlier. This machine sat on the Petter property since the early 1900s. Tim’s grandfather had used the mill and it was attached to a serious slab of concrete that was buried in the ground.

The Petter family with Steve Melton and the Columbus No. 90 Sugar Cane Mill that was restored. Debbie and Tim hadn’t thought too much about the rusting mill; in fact it was covered with vegetation, looking like quite a project to get to the scrapyard. Fortunately, one of the local Cane Grinders, Charlie Kinsey, noticed it and brought its purpose and value to the Petters’ attention through a series of people who knew people who knew people… The mill’s gears were so rusted that the Petters couldn’t move them, but Steve Melton wanted to have a “go” at restoring the antique device, so they let him come to their property with heavy farm machinery and some strong hands. They loaded it onto a tractor and drove to the Melton’s farm. Ninety days later - voila – we are having a christening! (You can see the video of this here.) A huge belt ran from the Columbus No. 90 Sugar Mill to an antique McCormick Farmall tractor. Steve hopped up on the tractor and it jumped to life. The mill began turning as four or five people were removing old leaves from the sugar cane stalks piled on a wagon behind it. The old leaves have impurities in them that will come off in the syrup. They also soak up the juice as it’s being squeezed, which limits the harvest. They began handing them to Charlie Kinsey and he fed one into the machine. http://naturecoaster.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/Crushing-the-Cane.mp4 Multiple stalks were put through at a time and the mill processed them flawlessly. I was encouraged to join in, peeling old leaves and loading stalks. On the other side of the cane mill was another of the Cane Cookers, diligently ensuring that all the stalks came out of the mill’s rollers before new ones were inserted. The spent stalks were piled on the other end of the machine where they fell. Later, these will be fed to the Meltons’ cattle. This is a community event and I am welcome to join in. The Columbus No. 90 took that stalk and ran it right through very close rollers. The juice was extracted through pressure and ran into a tank where it was pumped over to a 60 gallon cast iron kettle. "This is where we cook the juice until it becomes tasty syrup," Steve shared with us excitedly.

Steve cleans the strainer as the cane juice goes into the cooking kettle. Next to the Columbus No. 90 is the previous cane mill that these folks used to process their cane stalks. It is about 2/3 the size, and the new machine is quite a bit quicker at getting the juice out Charlie tells us. Twenty feet from the engine-powered mills is the real old fashioned mill which uses a horse or donkey to turn the rollers, grinding the cane.

The Mule mill was used to grind sugar cane before machines were available to do the work. Historically, farmers grow sugar cane on their farm, planting it in January and bringing it to the mill for processing into syrup to sweeten their family’s food throughout the year. Steve Melton explains, “The best time to cut sugarcane for cooking is between Thanksgiving and the New Year. Usually, the longer the cane stays planted, the sweeter it is. Cool weather makes it sweeter also.”

Drew builds the fire with Pine Lighterwood and Oak. As the cast iron kettle filled with sugar cane juice, a wood fire of Oak and Pine Lighterwood is built in the box. By now there were twenty-five to thirty people at the Melton’s farm for this event. The feeling is reminiscent of a family reunion or church potluck where friends and family are catching up while giving a hand in the process whenever opportunity arises. The fire gets very hot with a lot of BTUs to regulate the temperature of the syrup as it is boiling.

Florida's Original Nature Coaster skims the crust off the sugar cane juice as it heats to remove impurities. As the cane juice reached 190 degrees, the impurities rise to the top and we took turns skimming them from the crust which has formed on the top of the juice. We are guided in technique, learning to “chase” the crust across the kettle to ensure removing as many impurities as possible with each dip. Two people are continuously skimming for an hour. In the center of the kettle, a box with a fine screen bottom is placed to catch impurities that are atop bubbles cresting the sides.

Andy removes dirty linen cloths that have absorbed smaller impurities and replaces them with clean ones. Next as the sugarcane juice begins to boil white foam, we put linen cloth around the kettle where it scams the impurities at the edge of the cattle and purifies the juice. We replace and clean the linens and screens several times before it is time to move on. “Some colorful terms are used while cooking,” Steve explains, “One being a black speck of old sugar that comes up with the foam and floats on the foam and is filtered. This we call a tadpole. Next, when the syrup gets close, the bubbles turn to big bubbles called “fish eyes.” The next term we use is happens when the syrup gets thick. As it bubbles up like pudding, we call these thick bubbles “the hominy hop.””

Charlie Kirksey and the newest protege of the Cane Cookers work to remove impurities as the syrup heats up. During the third hour of cooking, the foam turns a golden color as the syrup sets. This is when it is time to look at pulling the syrup. We start testing the temperature, wanting to bring the syrup off at 227° or 35° balm hydrometer. (This is the new method.) One of our “seasoned” Cane Cookers uses the old method by which he watches the syrup coming off the dipper, looking for a string of syrup. Our hosts determine that the syrup is ready.

Golden bubbles signify we are close to the right syrup consistency to move onto bottling. Wilbur dips some syrup to check its readiness the old-fashioned way. Now we quickly dip it out into a big container to so we can bottle it. We dip the syrup quickly to keep the temperature hot enough to ensure sanitary conditions – as most people know, 212 degrees is boiling, so 227 degrees is sure to kill any bacteria that may have been in the original sugar juice! As soon as the syrup is out of the big kettle, Steve hollers, “Pull the fire!” Andy and Drew pull the fire out of its hotbox and onto the sand for it to burn itself out.

"Pull the fire!" is shouted as the syrup reaches 227 degrees. We do this to cool the kettle down as quickly as possible. Next water is brought in to help cool and clean the kettle out for next time.

Debbie Petter wipes clean the just filled bottle of cane syrup and moves it to the next person who will put the top on the bottle. Then it will be labelled and wiped clean again, and lastly placed in a box upside down for proper storage. A group of folks are stationed around a table and the bottling commences. First the syrup is poured into pint bottles, then the bottles are capped by the next person, wiped clean and laid down by the next, labelled by the next and wiped off again and put topside down in boxes to cool for distribution.

Andy's daughter puts the final touches on our syrup, placing the hot bottles in a box for storage and distribution. Her friend came out to her first cane cooking today and is applauded for how well she sticks the labels on. Their neighbor peels the labels of a sheet and hands them to her. Many hands make work a lot more fun. Before we go, Wilbur Dew explains what Sugar Cane Syrup Cooking is all about (and it's well worth the watch): Much of this prized cracker treat goes back with the people that helped. It will make a fine meal with buckwheat pancakes and real butter. Sandy’s Buckwheat Pancakes: 1 C Buttermilk                                                                1tsp sugar 1 egg                                                                                ½ tsp salt 3 Tbsp melted butter                                                    1 tsp baking soda 12 Tbsp buckwheat flour                                             3 Tbsp butter Whisk together buttemilk, egg and melted butter. Mix together flour, sugar, salt and baking soda. Pour dry ingredients into the egg mixture. Stir until the two are blended together. Heat gridle to medium heat. Heat 1 Tbsp of butter until melted. Spoon batter onto butter, turn when bubbles begin to appear. Cook until brown. Serve hot with butter and Cane Syrup to taste. Yummy...   Read the full article

[avanneman]

Truffles To Die For

(Preface to Author’s Note: I originally posted this story last Monday, saying that, since it was so long, I’d be posting it in two parts. Well, fine, except that I forgot to make the partition and thus ended up posting the whole thing. If you read the story last week and were expecting further developments of some kind, well, I’m sorry, but you read the whole thing. I’m posting the whole thing again, well, because it’s long and maybe someone else will read it sometime. Anyway.)

(Author’s Note: Some years ago I wrote three novellas in imitation of Rex Stout’s detective novels, featuring his rotund, orchid-fancying semi alter ego Nero Wolfe, as narrated by his wise-cracking assistant Archie Goodwin. They’re available, for free, if you click here and scroll down past all my “pay to read” books to Three Bullets. I am a member of an online group devoted to things Wolfian “The Wolfe Pack”, and an online discussion of the possibility of Nero Wolfe adventures narrated by someone other than Archie prompted me to compose “Truffles To Die For”, a long short story told in the words of Mr. Wolfe’s cook, Fritz Brenner, a native of Switzerland, which originally appeared here. The original stories by Stout presumed Nero Wolfe (and, pretty much, Fritz as well) to have been born sometime around 1890, so that he experienced World War I as a young man. I have kept the backstory, but implausibly continued the adventures of Stout’s menagerie into the present day, so that both Wolfe and Fritz are, bizarrely, well into their second century with almost no signs of wear.)

Miss Rowan is the sort of woman, who, if she wants to make an impression on a man, will find a way to do so. With a woman I am not so certain. But when it comes to a man, I have no doubt.

I had noticed that, when she first entered the dining room, she had her handbag with her. It is not unusual for a woman to do this, but in the many times Miss Rowan has dined with us, I do not believe she had done so on any previous occasion.

I cannot, of course, deny Miss Rowan her place at our table. That is Archie’s decision, and Mr. Wolfe’s. Mr. Wolfe understands Miss Rowan as clearly as I do—though I think at times, for Archie’s sake, he acts against his better judgment. We both understand that this is Archie’s affair—though I wish the word were not so appropriate—and we must abide by his decisions, which we do, though again I feel that sometimes Mr. Wolfe goes beyond what would be acceptable to Archie and, thus, beyond what is in fact desirable.

The occasion, to the extent that one involving Miss Rowan can be, was innocent. Mr. Wolfe had concluded a major case with his usual aplomb, the conclusion redounding very much to the advantage of the family of a close acquaintance of Miss Rowan’s father. Miss Rowan had played some small role in the matter, which she naturally chose to exaggerate, and in any event it was inevitable that she would join in the celebration of Mr. Wolfe’s latest triumph. It is rare for Mr. Wolfe to seek company, but when he is certain of being the center of attention and applause, his appetite for recognition, however restrained in manner, manifests itself with a sort of quiet fire that will not be denied.

On such occasions it is of course necessary for everything to be sans flaw, an urgency only intensified by Miss Rowan’s presence. Furthermore, the difficulty of the case caused Mr. Wolfe to simplify our menus, particularly for luncheons, to the extent that, I believe, he had lost as much as two pounds. So there was every reason to embrace a return to the grand meals, the main course in particular, Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine, what Americans, knowledgeable ones, at least, would call veal sweetbreads served in pastry shells with cream sauce, though to call vol-au-vis “pastry shells” is, one can only say, American.

I was just entering the dining room when Miss Rowan was retrieving her handbag.

“A wonderful meal as usual, Fritz,” she told me, touching my hand with hers in her most elegant manner.

I said nothing, but was instantly on my guard.

“The marrow was particularly splendid,” she continued. “I was so glad you chose to include it. I’m sure I’ve told you before that your marrow dishes are the best I’ve ever tasted! So beautiful, and so delicious!”

Her eyes sparkled as she said this. This is Miss Rowan’s way, though whether she was more delighted with my marrow or her own cunning, it is hard to say. A simple guest will simply praise the meal; a cultured one will praise the most famous dish, the gourmet’s choice. Miss Rowan, however, will praise the chef’s choice. Through her mysterious powers, she will infallibly choose the dish which the chef regards as his finest creation. A man can have no secrets from Miss Rowan.

“The Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine were of course superb as well,” she continued. “Superb! It is so hard to find truffles worthy of the dish, but of course you succeeded admirably. You know, my chef has a fellow in Paris, and another in Alba, who are able to give exceptional service in obtaining just the very best truffles you can imagine. Shall I have Robert give you a call and provide you with a few samples? I think Mr. Wolfe might enjoy them.”

She gave me a most charming smile, and I have no doubt that she spoke the absolute truth. The market for black truffles in France and white truffles in Italy are controlled with an iron hand; the very best never leave the continent. The finest black truffles are only to be had in Paris; the finest white, in Alba, Asti, and Rome. But Miss Rowan, I had no doubt, had broken through these defenses. It was impossible for me to say no.

“I’m sure Mr. Wolfe would appreciate it,” I said, hoping to convey, through the formality of my manner, that I was not speaking for myself.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “I love this room!”

And so she departed. Considering the lateness of the hour, it was impossible for me to confer with Mr. Wolfe on this matter. In any event, we had hired three assistants for the occasion and it was imperative for me to supervise their cleanup. I did not retire until after two in the morning, though I was able to sleep until eight, for on such occasions Mr. Wolfe does not breakfast before nine.

I arrived in his bedroom the next day pushing an elaborate cart, virtually a kitchen on wheels, that allows me to deliver Mr. Wolfe all of his favorite breakfasts at the proper temperature, working from behind a screen so as not to disturb him. I brought him his tray and poured him a glass of his favorite juice, a mixture of orange and apricot, which he leavens with mineral water. All this is kept very cold. When he finishes his juice I pour him a cup of coffee, hot and very black. Only after he has had his coffee does Mr. Wolfe speak.

“Good morning, Fritz. I trust the kitchen has recovered from last night’s ordeal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I was pleased.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

For Mr. Wolfe to say he was “pleased” after such an occasion means that he was entirely satisfied. He has no higher praise.

“By the way,” he continued, “did Miss Rowan endeavor to engage you in conversation when she disappeared after the conclusion of our dinner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed. We will discus this at a more propitious time. I will not have that woman disturb my breakfast. Continue with my omelet.”

With that he switched on his computer, which Archie, who is of course so clever with these things, had designed for him. For as long as I have worked for Mr. Wolfe, he has been a great reader of newspapers, particularly while breakfasting, though he always complained of the manner in which the ink would rub off on his hands and the counterpane of his bed. Though he is properly suspicious of the modern “improvements” that so often detract from the dignity and due measure of life, he has learned to control the computer through the device that Archie devised, reading from a large screen that swings into position while he remains in bed. In this manner he peruses newspapers from half a dozen countries each morning.

While he read I prepared him a cheese omelet, served with Virginia Smithfield ham, roasted whole hominy, and roasted tomatoes. Mr. Wolfe, like any true gourmet, cherishes the odors of fine cooking. When he leaves for the plant rooms his bedroom is ventilated, so nothing lingers.

Once I served Mr. Wolfe his meal I departed to the kitchen to begin preparation for Archie’s breakfast, raised pancakes with corn meal, along with pork link sausages. I had beaten down the pancake batter earlier and was pleased to see that it had risen nicely. Archie arrived almost at ten. From his demeanor I could surmise that he had accompanied Miss Rowan to her penthouse, though of course I made no comment.

“Good morning, Archie,” I said. “Last night was quite an evening.”

“Good morning, Fritz. You outdid yourself. You know how Lily loves your marrow.”

“Miss Rowan is always so very kind.”

I am afraid that whatever I say about Miss Rowan amuses Archie, so I sought to change the subject.

“Would you like some juice?”

Archie nodded. He was already engrossed in his computer, watching some video about one of those sporting events in which he takes such interest. This is natural in a young man, but the videos he watches invariably feature announcers whose sole purpose, it seems, is talk as much and as loudly as possible.

“Too loud for you, Fritz?”

“Not at all, Archie.”

He laughed.

“I’ll use the earphones.”

“Thank you, Archie.”

I served Archie his pancakes with orange blossom honey warmed and mixed with orange juice, which both thins and flavors the honey. Archie ate with the wonderful enthusiasm of youth, which is always so charming to see. When he left for the office I immediately began preparing for lunch. Because of the lateness of the previous night, we were more than an hour behind schedule, and I had no time to waste. I was so busy that I did not even hear Mr. Wolfe’s elevator and had no notice of the time until almost noon, when Archie suddenly entered the kitchen.

“I’m going out, Fritz,” he told me, “so don’t forget to fasten the chain. But I’ll be back for lunch.”

“Of course, Archie.”

I followed Archie down the hallway and fastened the chain after he departed. As I was returning to the kitchen I heard Mr. Wolfe’s buzzer, so I entered his office.

“Do you wish me to bring you a beer, sir?” I asked.

“I do, Fritz, but afterwards I desire conversation on the matter of Miss Rowan.”

“Of course, sir.”

I returned to the kitchen to obtain Mr. Wolfe’s beer, looking forward to our impending conversation with both eagerness and, I confess, fear. I gathered from Mr. Wolfe’s manner that, even knowing as little as he did, he took Miss Rowan’s gambit with the very greatest suspicion.

I felt a special sense of obligation to Mr. Wolfe at this moment. I was first of all gratified that he did not ask me to sit. Although Archie is perfectly charming and admirable in every way, he is an American—that, of course, is in great measure the source of his charm—but, still, he is an American, and I feel a special freedom when he leaves the house, so that, when the occasion requires, Mr. Wolfe and I can speak as Europeans. And on this occasion, as no other, we did so.

I brought him his beer and watched as he filled the glass to a quarter inch of the rim and then drank a healthy swallow before putting the glass down with the slightest trace of a sigh.

“In times of stress,” he said, with suitable gravity, “it is imperative not to neglect the quotidian pleasures of life.”

“I agree entirely, sir.”

“Yes. But now I have no choice but to forsake my safe harbor and embark on uncharted seas. I sent Mr. Goodwin on an errand that will occupy him for at least an hour. What did Miss Rowan say to you?”

“After a few compliments, sir, she praised the quality of the truffles served with the Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine and then implied that her own chef, M. Letty, had privileged access to the most superior truffles in Europe, both black and white. She said that she would have him call me, but so far I have not heard from him.”

“You undoubtedly will,” said Mr. Wolfe. “Confound the woman!”

“Yes, sir.”

I could see one corner of Mr. Wolfe’s mouth twist a little. I could see how fiercely he felt himself gripped by Miss Rowan’s vise.

“The truffles,” he said, tightly, “will be of the very highest quality. The very highest. As a young man, Fritz, I spent two weeks in Asti, a September I shall never forget. Were it not for Mussolini, I should have remained there forever.”

“I know, sir. I spent six months working in the kitchen of the Hotel Alba, departing for similar reasons.”

“And so I shall experience bliss once more, but at a price. Leave me, Fritz. Say nothing to Archie, of course. Do not inform him, once the truffles arrive, that Miss Rowan is their source. She will almost surely release the feline from the sack at a time of her own choosing, but I can endure that. I wish to pursue this matter without arousing suspicion on his part for as long as I can.”

“Of course, sir. The prawns from Mr. Horowitz appear excellent.”

Mr. Wolfe nodded but did not speak, and I departed. Archie returned from his errand and I served the prawns, sautéed and accompanied by artichoke bottoms stuffed with tomato paste and roasted potatoes, along with a light salad, preceded by oxtail soup and followed by fruit and cheese. Mr. Wolfe did not appear preoccupied, which reassured me, while Archie continued in his brightest mood, which, I confess, caused me a slight irritation. It was not his fault, of course, but I could not help thinking that it would be some time in our little home before such ingenuous good humor would be justified.

M. Letty did not call until around 3:30, but when he did he assured me that I would receive a shipment of both black and white truffles on the following day sometime before luncheon. In fact, they arrived at 10:30 in the morning, and the mere aroma, through the sturdy packaging, was enough to evoke those remarkable six months, now so long ago, when I worked daily with the most beautiful truffles imaginable, happy hours and happy days disrupted so tragically by evil men. Those of us at the hotel, who wished for nothing more than to prepare fine food in peace and civility, were forced to endure the sight of terrible things, and even, on occasion, to do them, merely to live. I had escaped all that and found in Mr. Wolfe’s home not merely an island but a pinnacle of civility. And now, with these truffles—almost blessed, one might call them—there was no culinary masterpiece that I could not conjure. Yet over all this loomed the menacing shadow of Miss Rowan. There is, I suppose, no Eden without an apple, and without an Eve.

Once I unpacked the truffles Mr. Wolfe came almost immediately into the kitchen.

“My God,” he murmured, gently touching the magnificent fungi. “This means deviltry indeed. Well, I will consume the bait, and await the hook.”

Mr. Wolfe chose to consume the truffles largely himself, enjoying truffled egg dishes every morning, while enjoying them on the luncheon and dinner menus more frequently than usual, but not at every meal, so that it might appear he was simply celebrating the conclusion of the case, and, in this way, avoid arousing Archie’s curiosity, which is so easily aroused. I myself had resolved not to lie to Archie, or even labor to mislead him, if he asked me outright why our menus had grown so extravagant. Fortunately, he did not ask. There were several of those “pennant” races to which he attaches so much importance occurring at that time, and, taking advantage of the situation, he frequently disappeared during both the afternoon and the evening to attend these matches. Furthermore, on the weekend he decamped entirely for some sort of jaunt with Miss Rowan. All of this was most convenient for Mr. Wolfe’s purposes, for he spent a great deal of time on the computer while Archie was out, and also had a long visit from Mr. Parker on Saturday. That evening, after dinner, he summoned me to the office once more, and this time he did invite me to sit down.

“Sit there,” he said, pointing to the big red chair before his desk.

I sat, and watched as he poured me a small glass of cognac. Then he raised his own.

“To your health, Fritz,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And to yours.”

We drank, and set our glasses down.

“I have found the hook,” he began. “I confess that Miss Rowan is never entirely out of my mind. It is in my interest to be aware of her activities, and for the past several months I had the very slightest suspicion of something amiss. You may have heard me remark to Archie that the most remarkable thing about Miss Rowan is that she is even more adept at making money than spending it. Her image in the popular press is that of a mere lady of fashion, who follows wherever fashion leads. Nothing could be further from the truth. Though she goes to great lengths to conceal it, she is an acute businesswoman whose endeavors are almost invariably crowned with success. You may recall the spate of stories last year crowning her as the city’s newest billionaire, as well as her affectedly modest disclaimers?”

“I do, sir.”

“Yes. In fact, she had become a billionaire several years before, but had managed to conceal that fact from the popular press, until recently.

“I however was aware, and I was thus struck when after years of constant activity and growth, there appeared to be a sudden stasis in her affairs. I surmised at the time that this merely indicated the application of another layer of deception, and now I find that I am correct. You are aware, Fritz, are you not, that the two most important words in New York City are ‘real estate’, and that the next two most important are ‘river view’?”

“I suppose, sir. I am a chef.”

“Yes, of course. I envy you, Fritz. You pursue perhaps the simplest yet the noblest of professions. I, however, concern myself with the grosser appetites. A scant two miles from this door the greatest orgy of glass and steel—glass and steel and greed—ever to raise its unholy head on this seething isle now proceeds apace. I refer to that grotesque conglomeration of ego and unwholesome profit known as the Hudson Yards. The extent of Miss Rowan’s fortune first became known when it was revealed that she was, in her own person, one of the principal minority investors in that vast undertaking.”

Mr. Wolfe paused, and finished his beer.

“She has been our guest on a number of occasions since the size of her investment first became known, but she always been singularly reluctant to discuss the project, despite its notoriety in the popular press. And, when I questioned her gently on the matter at our recent dinner, she lightly explained that she had significantly reduced the size of her investment, something I knew not to be true. She has, rather, significantly increased it, and intends to increase it still more.”

Mr. Wolfe paused once more, and dropped his voice, but only to speak with greater intensity.

“I have followed this matter very closely,” he said. “One of the principal investors has endured sudden and unsustainable losses in a number of its overseas investments. This of course has been denied as well—everything important is denied—but I know it to be true, and I also know that Miss Rowan is endeavoring to seize control of that investor, to join its share with hers, which would give her effective control of the entire enterprise!”

I could not follow Mr. Wolfe’s reasoning here, but his emotion was unmistakable.

“You find that threatening, sir?” I asked.

“I do indeed, Fritz, I do indeed. Pride of place in these undertaking is always given to the premier investor. To the victor belongs the prominence. What would you say if I told you, Fritz, that Miss Rowan is planning to erect, not more than ten blocks from this house, a hundred and twenty five-story aerie overlooking the Hudson River, surpassing all the other structures in the project, the top five floors to be devoted to a penthouse to be occupied by herself, commanding an unequalled 360-degree perspective of the entire city, a modern-day palace filled with every form of luxury and self-indulgence of which the modern mind has conceived?”

“I couldn’t imagine, sir,” I stammered.

“Well, I can,” Mr. Wolfe said, fiercely. “I can imagine Miss Rowan—that woman!—luring Archie to parties every weekend—the extraordinary convenience of it all, of course!—inviting every personage he might hope to meet. He would stay, at first, only on the weekends. But then, again, the convenience of it all! He would start keeping his clothes there, and then other possessions, and finally she would claim him whole, and we would be fortunate to enjoy his presence for the occasional lunch!”

Mr. Wolfe spoke with such a force of growing passion that I was speechless. I wanted to deny the picture he was painting, but it was all too convincing. I could manage nothing better than to express a helpless prayer.

“It can’t be true!” I cried.

“Well you may wish,” Mr. Wolfe said, with a nod. “Well you may wish. There are a thousand obstacles in her way—first to obtain control of the faltering principal investor and then to obtain the cooperation of all the others. Even as principal investor, of course, she will find it very difficult to construct a building that will be not simply first among equals but rather first without equal, but such is her intent. To obtain the necessary easements, permits, and acquiescences, both formal and informal, for such an undertaking is a Herculean task, and once word gets out, every other developer connected with the project—and every one not so connected—will be struggling to sabotage her efforts, to substitute their own. That is the main, but not the only, reason for her craft. For she fears me as well.”

Mr. Wolfe turned restlessly in his seat. I am not sure if I have ever seen him so distressed.

“Confound the woman!” he said again, in a fierce voice. He seemed about to say more but then lapsed into silence.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” I finally asked, though I could not imagine how I could be of assistance.

“There is, Fritz, there is. A great deal. In fact, you will figure largely in my response to Miss Rowan’s intended coup.”

“I will do whatever I can.”

“I know that you will. Here is the matter, Fritz. Almost all that I have told you is conjecture—founded, I am sure, on truth, but depending largely on my intimate knowledge of Miss Rowan’s character and capabilities. To convince intellects less informed and acute than my own requires proofs of a more conventional nature. The problem is, if I seek to gather such proofs, Miss Rowan will quickly become aware of my activities, and will seek to thwart or override them. There must be no trace of my interest in these matters. Nor can I use the services of Mr. Parker or Mr. Panzer or anyone else known to be associated with me.”

“But if these people cannot make inquiries I do not see how I should be able to,” I said, confused.

“Of course, Fritz. You would not do so personally. There are in New York, people who will perform almost any task, in complete secrecy, if amply compensated for their efforts. This is particularly the case when real estate is involved. When Mr. Parker was here, I obtained from him a list of individuals, known to him by reputation only, who will form one of those silent corporations that so festoon our city, that will gather information on real estate transactions in this area. You will speak to one of these individuals. I have a list. Simply begin at the beginning. If you are refused, move to the next. You must go to one of those convenience stores—not in this neighborhood—and obtain a cheap phone.”

“But I have never been in a convenience store, sir. How shall I recognize one?”

Mr. Wolfe’s eyes flashed.

“Do not speak as a child, Fritz,” he snapped. “If you wish to serve Archie his breakfast every morning you must prove yourself capable of both extreme measures and extreme exertions!”

“Of course, sir. Of course! I was speaking foolishly. I am sorry.”

“Very well. I suggest you visit the area surrounding Madison Square Garden, particularly the area south of that arena. Proceed on foot. These stores advertise their wares. Buy half a dozen phones, from as many stores. I will give you the cash. When you call the people on this list you may find them reluctant to deal with you absent proof of your financial probity. I have established a discreet account containing $2.5 million under your name. You must first, however, pay these individuals a substantial sum in cash. Mr. Parker assures me that an advance of $25,000 will be sufficient. As you may know, a cash withdrawal of this amount is automatically reported to the government. To avoid such inconveniences, I have obtained from a certain source $50,000 in cash, which you will use to conduct your initial affairs. Once you have formed the requisite dummy corporation that will allow us to make the necessary inquiries anonymously, the financial arrangements can be established in a more conventional manner—though, once again, without revealing our identity.”

“I, I am speechless, Mr. Wolfe.”

“I understand, Fritz. Mr. Parker has compiled a detailed list of instructions for you to follow, and you must memorize them. I will be pleased to supplement them in private conservations whenever necessary. Once you are sufficiently familiar with the instructions you must go to William Cullen Bryant Park, behind the library. You will sit outside and make your calls. You must not take your instructions with you. After each call, you will disassemble the phone with which you made the call and dispose of it in a discreet manner. I will show you how to do this. Always sit at a different table and always discard each phone in a different place.”

“Sir,” I protested, “I do not see how I can possibly remember all this.”

“We will discuss these matters again, Fritz, once you have purchased the phones, and again, if you like, before you make your first calls. But we will only do this in person. Never call me, or anyone known to be associated with me, on any phone. Never give this address, under any circumstance. If it is asked, ignore the request. If the request is repeated, break off the conversation—discreetly, of course. Only on a few occasions will you be required to give your own name. I think this is enough for the time being. Since the weather is expected to be clement, I suggest you purchase the phones tomorrow.”

With that, Mr. Wolfe reached down behind his desk and handed me a plain, black attaché case.

“The money and the instructions are in this case,” he said.

“I shall do my best, Mr. Wolfe,” I said, grasping the handle with much trepidation.

“I have every confidence in you, Fritz.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He looked for a moment directly into his eyes, and then his focus darted away. I sensed that this discussion, charged as it was with such a vast urgency, and so unlike any conversation we had ever experienced in all my years of employment, had strained him almost as much as it had myself, and that now he wished to be alone.

I confess that I sought privacy as well, out of both confusion and fear. I seldom venture out in New York on foot, and certainly not in the vicinity of what Archie calls “the Garden.” I find that in times of stress the best solution is to embrace one’s duty. I took the case down to my room and secured it. Then I returned to the kitchen and deboned a lamb shoulder for Sunday dinner and tended to several other trifles that I had originally planned to do after preparing Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast. In that way I went to be late enough to fall asleep almost immediately, wakening in the morning with a sense of foreboding that persisted as I prepared Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast. He made no mention of our discussion the previous night, as though the matter were now entirely in my hands.

Once I returned to the kitchen and disposed of the dishes I descended the basement stairs to my room and opened the case that Mr. Wolfe had given me the night before. I took out a large folder thick with the pages of Mr. Parker’s instructions, which lay on top of neat packets of one-hundred-dollar bills, accompanied, as I was soon to discover, by several packets of twenty-dollar bills, which I discovered with some relief, for I did not look forward to paying for everything with crisp new bills of a high denomination, which must inevitably suggest illegal activity. I put eight twenty-dollar bills in my wallet and, with some hesitation, five one-hundred-dollar bills in my pocket. Thus equipped financially, I put on a jacket and a light overcoat, a hat, and a walking stick. It seemed wise to have something to hold onto.

I entered the kitchen and passed through it to exit by the rear door. Leaving the house and descending the steps to our small backyard made me uncommonly tense. There are few neighborhoods in New York more proper and peaceful than ours, I believe, but the drop off is sudden and steep. I had barely crossed half a dozen streets before I found myself headed down 8th Avenue, surrounded by one can only call the masses, called forth from, it would seem, virtually every country in the world, and speaking, and speaking very loudly, in every conceivable language, with the exceptions of English and French. At length I passed that ponderous leviathan of a building referred to as “the Garden”, surrounded by a furious, honking swirl of traffic. I observed an establishment of sorts offering cell phones for sale, and after a good deal of confusion, managed to purchase one. I continued for several blocks, buying a phone on each block, and then crossed the street and worked my way back up, until I had accumulated ten of the devices. Mr. Wolfe had suggested half a dozen, but I had no intention of making a second trip.

Archie returned from his weekend trip in time for dinner. To soothe myself I prepared a cream of sorrel soup, along with a large oyster soufflé to precede the lamb shoulder, served with roasted potatoes and asparagus, followed by a tarte tatin with French vanilla ice cream for dessert. When I prepared breakfast for Mr. Wolfe the next morning—his favorite 45-minute scrambled eggs with truffles—he said nothing other than the usual pleasantries, as was indeed his usual practice, though when I removed his tray he could not help but remark, “these truffles are almost unendurably fine.” I thought he might say more but he did not, so I simply continued with my duties.

I felt it was wrong to deny Archie the magnificent truffles that had come to us under such conflicted circumstances, particularly since I feared that he might ask about that wonderful odor that now pervaded my kitchen, so I prepared the same dish for him when he arrived, along with some lamb sausages that I had prepared from a portion of the shoulder the night before.

“Those are truffles you’re putting in the eggs, aren’t they?” he said suddenly.

“Yes, Archie, they are.”

“I can smell them from here.”

“These are very fine truffles, Archie,” I told him, studying the curds as I stirred them while summoning the courage to identify their source.

“Miss Rowan provided them,” I said. “That is to say, she enabled us to obtain them. Her chef appears to have some very special contacts in Europe.”

Archie appeared amused at this news.

“She’s up to something,” he told me. “She’s been in a very good mood, and she won’t tell me why.”

He then laughed in a manner that I did not entirely like, though at the same time I felt reassured. It was definitely better for the news about Mis Rowan’s involvement to come from me than Miss Rowan, and it was a relief to have the issue now settled and done with. In addition, his clear interest in pursuing Miss Rowan’s “secret” would lessen the chance of his stumbling across ours.

After breakfast I repaired again to my bedroom, opening up the set of instructions that Mr. Parker had prepared and reviewing them with great care. According to Mr. Parker’s instructions, there were fifteen steps that I must complete. Mr. Wolfe had insisted that I not take the instructions with me, so I simply wrote a list of numbers, from one to fifteen, on a pad of paper, so that I could check them off. At last I summoned up all my courage and prepared for my first visit to William Cullen Bryant Park. I exited from the rear of the house once more, and walked several blocks before hailing a passing cab. I rode to the park, which proved to be quite charming, almost European, and indeed many of the people seated in the park were clearly what Americans would consider to be “foreigners”. I seated myself at some distance from the library but facing it and, with immense trepidation, dialed the first number.

A voice answered on the first ring, flat and direct, not vulgar and not refined, with a trace of a Slavic accent. To my surprise, the conversation proceeded almost perfectly according to Mr. Parker’s instructions, almost as if the man were reading from a similar document. Despite occasional awkward moments, I was never asked a question I could not answer, and never asked a question I did not want to answer. The matter was brought to a head so briskly that I was almost afraid that something had been omitted, but as I surveyed the checklist before me I saw that we were done in less than half an hour. The first great hurdle had been completed. The second, and most awkward—the transfer of the attaché case containing $25,000 in cash—would occur that afternoon. I disassembled the phone according to Mr. Wolfe’s instructions and unobtrusively discarded it in a trash can that was half full. Then I returned to our brownstone, feeling both immense relief and continued agitation. Once again I sought to calm my fears by embracing routine, preparing a lunch of trout with truffle butter and beet and endive salad with walnuts and goat cheese. Later, as I served the meal, I was amazed at the ease with which Mr. Wolfe spoke with Archie, particularly when the subject of truffles came up, as it inevitably did, thanks to the menu. I cannot deny that Mr. Wolfe is an unusual gentleman, but that he is a gentleman of true distinction no one can deny, and he praised Miss Rowan’s gift with seemingly simple and genuine candor. I had almost thought not to prepare that dish, but the trout, so fresh and succulent, almost begged to be cooked, and to be served with the noblest of truffles for the pleasure of a gourmet of the distinction of Mr. Wolfe and for such a uniquely charming young man as Archie is surely the most glorious fate a trout could wish for.

Yet I confess that I shook a little once the meal was done and everything was cleared away, for now I had no choice but to venture forth with my weighty attaché case, a burden indeed for a man of my character. I made my way out of the alley and walked several blocks before taking a cab to my destination, the Pennsylvania Hotel, a large, hulking building swarming with people of the most casual attire and the most casual of manners, and forming a contrast with my own person so striking that I felt unnaturally conspicuous. But it was soon clear that in such a place no one pays the slightest concern for anyone else, and so I soon lost all fear of attracting attention. I made my way to an elevator and rode to the eighteenth floor and soon found the room number given me, 1823. I knocked and the door opened. My heart beat fiercely now, more fiercely than any time since my days as an apprentice at the Hotel Alba.

But again, it transpired that my fears were exaggerated. Two large men greeted me, with no pleasure but without intimidation. I handed them the attaché case and the smaller of the two immediately set to counting the money, without speaking a word. When he was finished he looked up at me.

“We’re good. Do you need the case back?”

Mr. Parker had advised to retain possession, since his secretary had purchased the case, so I answered in the affirmative.

“Call tomorrow,” he told me. I was almost sure that this was not the man I had spoken to on the phone.

“Yes, of course.”

And then we were done. I left with the now-empty case, swinging it a little as I walked. As I exited the building I stared at the busy street in wonder, suddenly conscious that I had absolutely no idea where I was, but I then realized almost immediately thereafter that my confusion was no matter, because the street before me was clogged with cabs. I took the first that presented itself and rode a few short blocks to 35th Street, where I exited so as to complete my journey on foot, once again marveling at how close Mr. Wolf’s brownstone is to New York’s restless masses, as full of energy as they are lacking in purpose, one must say. We are truly an island.

After I returned I felt compelled to take a shower, before beginning to prepare truffled stuffing for three glorious pheasants that Archie had bagged over the weekend—we never, so it would seem, would find ourselves free from Miss Rowan’s snares! They were excellent birds, and would only require a few more days before being sufficiently tender. The goose liver and pork kidney fat we had obtained from Rutherford’s was up to their usual high standards, almost matching the quality of the truffles. For dinner I planned a relatively simple though extravagant meal—fresh oysters with caviar, followed by tournedos Rossini, using the last of the foie gras that I prepared the week before, served with haricots verts and rice, with broiled grapefruit laced with dark rum and brown sugar for dessert.

The next morning, after breakfast, when Archie was conveniently out of the office, I made another call to the gentleman I had spoken to earlier. Once more, our conversation proceeded almost as though governed by clockwork. In less than half fifteen minutes, everything was settled. He informed me to call him in three days, also informing me that he would establish a postal box in the name of our newly formed corporation, for our mutual use, through which information, coded on those strange little objects that Mr. Wolfe wisely prefers to call “clés USB”, would be transferred. So now I had nothing more to do for the rest of the week but to adhere to our normal routine, which was a great relief to me.

That weekend, Archie again forsook us for Miss Rowan’s company, journeying with her to Boston to observe a “playoff” of some sort. Naturally, she possesses a pied-à-terre in that city as well. During the entire weekend, Mr. Wolfe made no mention of our secretive campaign. On Friday evening we hosted a gathering of Mr. Wolfe’s fellow Montenegrins, semi-annual events that I always find quite touching. It is a fine gesture on Mr. Wolfe’s part. The Montenegrins who attend these affairs are all of some educational attainment, and not mere provincials, but none can approach the haut ton, if I may use an expression that is, I fear, too good for the modern world, of Mr. Wolfe. He comports himself on these occasions with both a special openness and a special reserve that these good-natured people appreciate without understanding. For the dinner I returned to tournedos Rossini, relatively undemanding yet sure to both awe and delight an unsophisticated palate, preceded by caviar and other fine hors d’oeuvres and followed by the sort of “grand” ice cream desserts which I always find easier to purchase than to prepare.

On Monday I called my mysterious gentleman a third time and discovered that our corporation, “Mid-Town Investments”, was an established firm, and that, barring an emergency, no more phone calls were necessary. I spent the rest of the morning boning a capon for a galantine later in the week before preparing mushroom and truffle tartlets for lunch, to be followed by sautéed pork chops charcutiere, with fruit and cheese for dessert. I planned quail for the evening meal, which cook rapidly, giving me time for another of my sorties.

Again I departed from our brownstone by the rear door, walking several blocks before hailing a cab, heading, fortunately, away from Madison Square Garden, before alighting to take the subway, traveling almost a dozen stops to an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood, certainly less crowded than the neighborhood of Madison Square Garden, but scarcely more promising. I found the post office, a small, busy, unprepossessing affair, and then the post office box. A small manila envelope lay inside, containing the clés, which I retrieved.

For the next month I repeated this errand perhaps dozen times, transferring the clés back and forth. During that time, Mr. Wolfe gave no indication of either relief or frustration, and I dared not raise the issue on my own. I remember that it was on a rather chilly Saturday morning that I journeyed to the post office once more, Archie again being in Miss Rowan’s company. I retrieved the package as usual, but as I did so I saw reflected in the expansive glass window at the front of the building the figure of a man who, though wearing dark glasses, seemed to be staring at me intently even though standing before a display of mailing envelopes. I was instantly struck by the conviction that the man was watching me. I suspect that my reaction gave me away, though he remained impassive.

I exited quickly, deciding not to head directly for the subway, though doubting he would follow me. But follow me he did, and quite aggressively. I was suddenly seized with the fear that he would attack my person and snatch the envelope from me. I looked with desperate hope for the sight of a policeman who might aid me but could see no one, nor was there a convenient cab on the street. I observed a man walking perhaps a dozen paces ahead of me head up the stairway to an apartment building and open the door, using some sort of electronic code to enter. I quickly followed, before the door could close, and then pulled it firmly shut behind me. But as I did so I observed a young woman heading up the same stairs, and the gentleman with the sun glasses close behind her.

I entered the lobby of the building. There was a single elevator, with an indicator light displaying the number “7”. Immediately to my left was a doorway marked “Stairs”. I entered and again pulled the door shut behind me, hoping my entry would not be observed. I walked quickly up the first flight and was half-way up the second when I heard the door open on the ground floor, followed by the sound of someone ascending at a rapid pace, so I increased my own. On reaching the third floor I tried to open the door, discovering to my discomfort that it was locked. I had no choice but to keep ascending, briefly attempting the door on each new floor, but without success.

As I passed the seventh floor I could see a door labeled “Roof Access”. It seemed certain that this door would be locked as well, but this assumption proved to be incorrect, for the door opened easily and had no lock that I could discover. I ran out onto the roof, hoping to meet someone who could at least serve as a witness that would discourage an outright assault, but to my great disappointment I saw no one.

The roof was surrounded by a low wall, less than waist high, that ran around the entirety of the building. Near the far side of the roof stood a small shed. I ran towards it, hoping that it contained the entrance to a second staircase, though it had the look of a mere maintenance shed. Its door was locked. As I pulled on the door I heard the door which I had so recently exited open, followed, to my horror and amazement, by the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot!

I hurried to the opposite side of the shed, seeking at least shelter, finding a second door, that had no lock, but rather a simple hole where one might be installed. The frame of the door appeared to be crooked, but by pulling furiously I was able to open it, though the shed was so close to the edge of the roof that there was insufficient room to open it completely. Once inside I braced my foot against the side of door frame and pulled the door as tightly shut as I could. Almost as I did so I heard the heavy footsteps of my assailant. I then heard the sound first of heavy breathing and then a harsh voice.

“Come on out, pal, and you won’t get hurt. I just fired a round to let you know I mean business. But I don’t want a corpse. Hand over the envelope and you won’t have a problem.”

I doubted the veracity of that statement, and in any case I had no intention of surrendering the clés. I squatted and was able to look out through the hole in the door to observe the man, just in the act of placing a small revolver in his waistband. I don’t believe it occurred to him that I might be watching him.

“Come on out of there, pal,” he said once more. “You’re only making it tough on yourself.”

With that he grabbed the handle of the door and tried to pull it open. When it held fast he grabbed it with both hands and braced his left leg against the frame. I heard the grating of metal and suddenly launched my shoulder against the door, causing it to fly open. As it did so I crashed into my pursuer and sent him hurling backwards over the low wall and, had I not fallen on my knees, I might have followed him.

He fell headfirst for three floors, arcing towards the building. His forehead struck on the stone sill of a fifth-floor window with a hideous crunch, so that he completed his fall feet first, bouncing off an iron railing and collapsing on a concrete walkway. He died without a sound.

I realized that I had to get away from this scene as soon as possible. If I had been observed, I would have to deal with it as I could, but it was my hope to escape detection. I re-entered the building and descended the staircase without meeting anyone. The lobby was empty as well, but as I exited I passed a couple entering the building. They were engaged in an animated conversation, which encouraged me to believe that they would not remember me. It was only two blocks to the subway. I entered and took a train headed in the direction opposite to the one I wished, riding for five stops before getting off and transferring to another train, ending at length at a station known as “Brighton Beach”, which, as it turns out, actually is a beach. I walked along the boardwalk for half an hour, wishing that I could call Mr. Wolfe, but I understood that he felt it was most imperative that there be no phone conversations originating or terminating at our address.

When I felt that my heartbeat had returned to something like normal, I returned to the subway and took a train headed back to the city. I arrived at length at Times Square, where it would be almost impossible for a person of any description to attract attention. Eventually, I was able to find a cab and rode to within several blocks of our brownstone before completing my journey on foot. I entered by the rear, of course, and discovered poor Mr. Wolfe, who had had no proper lunch, sitting in the kitchen by himself, with a half loaf of bread and a similarly diminished wheel of cheese before him.

“You have had difficulties, Fritz?” Mr. Wolfe asked, for of course he knew that nothing ordinary could have prevented my prompt return from my errand.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wolfe. I am afraid a man is dead.”

“Sit,” he said to me, firmly, indicating the chair beside him. “You must eat. Would you like something to drink?”

“A glass of mineral water, if that would be possible.”

“Of course, Fritz. Of course.”

I should not have allowed Mr. Wolfe to serve me, but I am afraid that once I had sat on my familiar stool I found I could not rise again. There is nothing so shocking as the brute finality of a violent death, and I had happily forgotten its power for a very long time.

He handed me the glass and I drank.

“Eat, Fritz!” He commanded. “But you must have more. I shall prepare you a plain omelet, accompanied by a slice of ham from last night’s dinner.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Nonsense. Not another word until you have eaten.”

As both Mr. Wolfe and I know, there is no restorative comparable to a well-cooked meal. When I had finished the fine omelet he had prepared, I gave him a full description of the grim proceedings of the previous five hours.

“We must devise another plan,” Mr. Wolfe said, once I had completed my account. “There is still much to be done.”

The plan Mr. Wolfe devised proved to be time-consuming though effective. Instead of passing information using a clés, we transmitted the information through disposable phones. To discourage detection, I was forced to ride the subway for fully an hour at a time, due to the length of the “files” and the limited power of the phones. For the next week, I, and I am sure, Mr. Wolfe as well, were fearful that our plans had been discovered, in some manner and to some extent, but Mr. Wolfe said nothing, and the regularity of our transmissions gave me confidence that Mr. Wolfe felt our secret had been maintained.

Fully another month passed after that terrible incident. Mr. Wolfe had taken another case, and Archie was frequently out of the office. Yet Mr. Wolfe never took the occasion to utter the slightest remark to me regarding Miss Rowan. Mr. Wolfe had cautioned me not to make any effort to search for information about the Hudson “Yards” on the Internet, so that I was confined to ignorance, despite the constant reminder of Miss Rowan’s dark intentions, in the form of the most wonderful truffles a chef could imagine.

Thus it was a complete surprise to me one morning when, while preparing Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast I heard him give a sudden snort of surprise.

“Do you desire my assistance, Mr. Wolfe?” I asked, from behind the screen.

“No,” he said, sharply. “Please continue with my omelet.”

I did so, and when it was ready I scooped it onto its plate, accompanied by venison sausages with truffles and popovers. I brought Mr. Wolfe’s tray and placed it before him.

“Very good, Fritz,” he said. There was something in his manner that convinced me he was in good spirits, but no man should be interrupted while eating his breakfast. It is, in a way, perhaps, a sacred meal.

After I served Mr. Wolfe I returned to my station behind the screen to prepare the breakfast cart for its return to the kitchen, as well as to attend to Mr. Wolfe’s request for another cup of coffee when he should require it, for he will always ring when his cup is perhaps one quarter full, to allow me to brew a fresh cup. When he did ring I prepared the fresh cup and brought it to him. As I did so he suddenly swung the computer screen around.

“Look at your handiwork!” he commanded, pointing to the screen, which displayed the facsimile of the page of a newspaper, his finger indicating a small article headlined “Hudson condominium announces restructuring”. I tried to read the article, but the prose was clotted with strange terms, surely the “language” of the commercial world, of which I knew nothing. I did not want to struggle with the meaning, for I knew the remainder of Mr. Wolfe’s omelet was getting cold.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

Before replying, I was gratified to see that Mr. Wolfe took a healthy bite of omelet and venison sausage, which he chewed carefully, as is always his practice, followed by a swallow of coffee.

“A fine omelet, as always, Fritz,” he said, “and the venison as well. I’m not surprised that you find the article uninformative. It is designed to be so. But to the knowledgeable it speaks volumes. The information obtained by Mid-Town Investments was dispensed, I am pleased to say, with both the anonymity and effectiveness of an underwater mine. Miss Rowan’s plans were revealed to those most likely to resent them. This ‘restructuring’ assures adequate funding for the organizations she targeted, denying her the controlling interest she pursued. The squabble for precedence will now proceed in the open. These infantile titans inevitably take a greater pleasure in thwarting the dreams of others than fulfilling their own. Miss Rowan will have a building, eventually, I am sure, but not the one of her original expectations. And it will not materialize for, I would say, at least five years.”

“That is so excellent, Mr. Wolfe!” I could not keep myself from exclaiming. “Magnifique!”

Mr. Wolfe appeared indeed pleased. He took another bite of omelet and sausage and chewed happily.

“Most satisfactory,” he said. “Your doing, Fritz.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Yes, it was. You were the vital link, the only one I could turn to, and you performed admirably. Now you must name your reward.”

“Sir, to have Mr. Goodwin with us is all the reward I require.”

“Well said, Fritz, well said. I believe I will have another popover, with the blackberry jam this time, and the lemon curd as well. And perhaps another sausage.”

“Of course, sir.”

[mitcheskitchen]

Postponed because of Oregons 2019 “Snowpacalypse” a few of us got to revisit a  piece of @shuckportland last Sunday through its Iron Fire Brine event. . . For those of you who still dont know; shuck Portland is an amazing week long event helping highlight the conservation of oysters and their natural habitats by showcasing the flavor and diversity these mollusks have to offer. . . We all assembled in the the tasting room which opens up into the backlot @giganticbrew who was pouring for the event. There to greet us was an ample raw bar loaded with everything needed to turn up your oyster experience. The smell of smoke playing with the fresh rain, made for a cozy outdoor feel. Our host were tending hand crafted metal grills full of oysters. We were then invited to introduce our smoky grilled bivalves to the butter bar. Yeah!!! Almost  just what it sound like , except,these butters are infused with the kind of things that give you that eye rolling experience when added to your mouth. . . . The afternoon closed with a savory seafood posole filled with @three_sister_nixtamal hominy, blue and manilla clams in an burnt onion dashi simmered in dutch ovens in the fire that our host had been stoking all afternoon. Have you ever showed up to an event knowing you were going to have a good time ,but because of whatever combination of magic and good karma you leave with more. Maybe that more is  an elevated sense of well being or a renewed confidence in your fellow man @shuckportland ‘s Iron Fire Brine event put on by @tournantpdx s chef jarrett foster mona johnson and chef chef joe rodriguez with the help of @olympiaoysterbar chef maylin chavez @flyingfishpdx lyf Gildersleeve was all that and bag (or 20) of oystery. (at Gigantic Brewing Company) https://www.instagram.com/p/BwJQZ-5A_TQ/?igshid=6ah3cwgwjdk4