#the coffee biscuits from the cookbook are SO GOOD

[guavi]

happy Lesbians Ultimate raid release day for those who celebrate

[copperbadge]

Europeans, I have some questions.

Do you know what ambrosia salad is?

If so, is the version you know of a) a normal salad or b) a "dessert" salad?

Do you know what Dirt Cake is?

If so, is that common knowledge in your region?

(What country/region do you live in, other context you wish to add, etc)

I'm working on the new Shivadh novel and I underestimated the comedic potential of Simon, a classically trained French chef who has been cooking for European nobility for thirty years, trying to set a menu for a graduation party with Noah, your average American teenaged garbage disposal, and Eddie, who is literally based on Guy Fieri. Reminds me of the bit in Infinite Jes where Michaelis mentions that Eddie and Gerald had him judge a debate about Hot Pockets and then confesses he doesn't actually know what they are.

(Context for the end of the snippet -- Hugo and Gwen are Simon's brother and sister-in-law, Claude is his young nephew.)

"Huh, okay, so are we doing like a salad theme?" 

"How do you mean?" Noah asked.

"Oh, just, you've got a potato salad and a pasta salad. I'd suggest a Jello salad for dessert but..." Eddie broke off at Alanna's horrified look. "That is what you will see on everyone's face," he said to Noah, pointing at Alanna. 

"Not so, I could do an aspic," Simon protested. "Sweet or savory, very traditional -- not this nonsense from American cookbooks from sixty years ago."

"American nonsense is kinda my brand," Noah pointed out. "Uh, I don't think we realized we were building a giant salad course but I am into that, actually. I'd like to discuss the Jello Salad," he said, and Eddie crowed delightedly while Alanna blanched, so Simon had to mediate a good-natured but extensive debate about gelatin in sweet dessert salads. 

It was an education; when he showed Hugo and Gwen what Americans thought ambrosia salad was, later, their horror was gratifying. It was a fitting prelude to his next exhibit, the Dirt Cake pudding cup, which made Hugo pretend to faint but -- even better -- fascinated little Claude so much that he insisted he wanted them instead of a cake for his next birthday. 

"He'll forget by the time the birthday arrives," Simon assured Hugo, who pretended to mop a sweaty brow. "And if he doesn't, I can elevate this. A light coffee mousse with chocolate biscuits -- drizzle with a sweet wine reduction -- jellied candy flavored with dragonfruit and blackcurrant."

"Can we put bones in the dirt?" Claude asked, already exploring his terrible American dessert options on his tablet. 

"Not human," Gwen said hurriedly. "That's a bridge too far for a birthday party, my darling," she told Claude. 

"Dinosaur bones?" Claude asked hopefully. Gwen and Hugo both looked at Simon. 

"Meringue, or marzipan," Simon pronounced. "Yes, that could be done. Well, my little gravedigger, we will see," he told Claude, tousling his hair.

[giveafike]

Sugar, Spice & Everything Nice! -B.T.S

TLDR: making gingerbread cookies w Ben :p. This is part 4/12 of Azzie's Advent Calendar 2024!

Word count + info: 4.6k. including dialogue.

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW! No warnings : )

Azzie Notes ✚: this one’s heavily inspired by my own family tradition - we always bake gingerbread cookies since I was a little girl! The first time I did, it was in primary school when I was maybe 6, 7 years old? And after that, my family took it and made it our own little mess :) v v wholesome making little biscuits, shaping them and waiting for them to cool and then decorating them… it’s such a pure act of patience and love, right? Also, changed the middle pic to the MSG pic, his eyes are twinkling, god I love him bad

————————————————————————

The morning was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came when the house was nearly empty. A faint December golden light filtered through the kitchen windows, warming the wooden table where you sat, flipping through the cookbook you had picked up at the Christmas market. The glossy pages felt smooth under your fingers, each recipe accompanied by photos of perfectly baked treats and artful decorations. It was the sort of book that made everything seem achievable, even for a novice. A steaming mug of coffee sat on the table beside you, the rich aroma mingling with the faint hint of pine from the Christmas tree in the other room. Ben had made the coffee, placing it in front of you with a casual kiss on the top of your head and a small rub on your shoulder before taking his place, sitting across you at the table with his own mug. Underneath the table, Halo was sprawled out comfortably, still softly snoring against the floorboards whenever you shifted your feet.

The house was calm, Lisa and Bryan were out doing some last-minute Christmas shopping, and Emma had spent the night at her friend’s house, leaving her still lounging over there for the day. It was just you and Ben.

He seemed at ease, leaning against the counter in his sweats and a faded T-shirt, sipping his coffee and scrolling on his phone. There was something different about him in his childhood home, a quiet confidence, a comfort that came with years of familiarity but you being with him? He liked the way that felt.

Curiosity got the better of him as he set down his phone and stepped closer. “What’s got you so locked in?” he asked, peering over your shoulder.

You smiled, holding the book up slightly so he could see. “Gingerbread cookies,” you said, pointing to a page with intricately decorated cookies that looked almost too good to eat.

Ben squinted at the lengthy recipe and let out a soft laugh. “That’s... ambitious. Is that what you’re thinking of makin'?”

“Maybe,” you said with a shrug. “I mean, when I was a kid, we made gingerbread cookies once or twice, but it was the easy kind. You know, cutting out shapes from pre-made dough and sticking them on parchment paper. Not exactly homemade.”

He chuckled, leaning against the back of your chair. “So, you skipped all the hard stuff and went straight to the fun part, huh?”

“Exactly,” you said with a grin. “But this... this is the real deal. Making the dough, rolling it out, and baking from scratch. It feels like something I should try at least once, one day...”

Ben’s eyes softened as he watched you, the corners of his lips twitching upward. “Well,” he said, straightening up, “why not today? Let’s do it.”

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “You sure? This recipe is, like, a full-day commitment. I was just looking for inspiration.”

He nodded, setting his empty mug on the table. “Yeah, I’m sure. Mom’s stocked up on all the baking stuff for the holidays, so we should have everything we need. Besides, you’ve been talkin' about a baking day since we got here. Why not now?”

You hesitated for a moment, scanning his face for any hint of second thoughts, but his broad smile was nothing but genuine, his excitement contagious.

“Alright,” you said, closing the cookbook and standing up. “Let’s do it. But you better be ready to work, I’m not doing this all by myself.”

Ben smirked, crossing his arms. “Don’t worry, I’m a great assistant. I’ll handle the hard labour.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your small smile as you began to call out ingredients while Ben gathered. Ben leaned casually against the counter, watching as you carefully measured out the flour, sugar, and spices, the soft clinking of measuring cups the only sound in the room. There was a quiet concentration in the way you moved, a small crease forming between your brows as you checked the recipe and sifted the flour into a large mixing bowl. Every so often, he caught you muttering numbers under your breath, double-checking your measurements, making him smile in pure smitten adoration.

“You’re taking this seriously, huh?” he teased, arms crossed as he leaned a hip against the counter.

“Of course I am,” you replied, not looking up. “You don’t mess around with dough. One wrong move, and it’s game over.”

Ben chuckled, stepping closer to the cabinets. “Alright, Chef. What’s next? Spices?”

You nodded, dragging your finger across the page of the cookbook to check the measurements. “Yep. Cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and nutmeg. You got it?”

Ben nodded before he pushed himself off, stretching up to the top shelf of the cabinet, his fingers easily reaching the small spice jars that were out of your reach. He handed them to you one by one, lingering close as you measured each spice into a small bowl. The kitchen was soon filled with a warm, heady aroma, the kind that instantly made everything feel more festive.

“Smells like Christmas, for sure. You're doing somethin' right” Ben said, leaning down slightly to take a dramatic sniff.

“Smells like a lot of hard work,” you corrected, smiling as you added the spices to the bowl. “Alright, next is the wet ingredients. Butter and molasses, grab the molasses for me?”

Ben grabbed the jar and slid it across the counter toward you, watching you spoon the thick, dark syrup into the bowl. “That stuff’s like tar,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

You laughed. “It’s basically liquid gold for gingerbread, though. Trust the process.”

He nodded, though his expression remained sceptical. “Mhm. If you say so.”

As you cracked eggs into the mixture and began to combine everything, Ben wandered over to your side, resting a hand lightly on your back as he peered into the bowl.

“You’ve got this,” he said playfully. “But if you need some real muscle for the next part, I’m available.”

You glanced up at him, smirking. “Oh, don’t worry, you’re about to get your hands dirty.”

His grin widened. “Man, I’ve been waiting for you to say that!”

Once the dough had started to come together, you handed him the wooden spoon, pointing at the thick mixture.

“Alright, muscle-man. It’s your time to shine. But be careful, don’t overwork it. We need the dough to be soft and pliable, not like a brick.”

"Don’t overwork it," he echoed, his voice deliberately mimicking your tone. He tried to press his lips into a straight line, but his smile betrayed him. With a playful glint in his eye, he took the spoon from your hand. "Got it," he said, his grin slipping through despite his efforts.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you watched him take over. His biceps flexed slightly as he stirred the dense dough, and you couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he managed it, effortless and, somehow, ridiculously attractive. He was a mix of charm and frustration rolled into one.

“This isn’t so bad,” he said, glancing at you with a smug grin. “I thought you said this would be hard work.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing as you distracted yourself by taking the dirty utensils and bowls into the sink to stop yourself from drooling. “That’s because you haven’t gotten to the part where your arm feels like it’s going to fall off.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Please. I’m a professional athlete. I think I can handle-”

Mid-sentence, the spoon hit a particularly stubborn clump of dry dough, plastered in flour, and Ben’s smug expression faltered as he struggled to keep a massive part of the unmixed batter from spilling over the edge of the bowl.

“Careful!” you exclaimed, eyes widening as you stepped forward to steady the bowl.

“Alright, alright,” he said, his voice tinged with laughter as he adjusted his grip. “Maybe this is a little more work than I thought.”

You grinned, giving his arm a playful nudge. “Told you. Now, keep going. You’re doing great.”

With a determined look, Ben continued to fold the dough, his movements steady and deliberate under you as you glanced every now and then. You found yourself smiling as you guided him, appreciating how he seemed to take it all in stride, even the mess.

Finally, the dough was smooth and well-mixed, and you placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Okay, that’s perfect. Any more, and you’ll ruin it.”

Ben set the spoon down with a dramatic sigh, shaking his hand as though he’d just finished a workout. “You weren’t kidding about the arm workout.”

You laughed, reaching for the plastic wrap to cover the dough. “See? Baking isn’t just about precision, it’s about endurance. You’d better hydrate if you want to make it to the next round. Maybe take a seat on the bench.”

Ben chuckled, as he watched you wrap the dough in cling film and set it in the fridge to rest. His gaze soft as he admired the way you moved around the kitchen.

“You’re kinda cute when you get all serious about this,” he said, his voice low and warm.

You shot him a playful glare, your cheeks warming. “Focus, Shelton. We’re only halfway there.”

He held up his hands in surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, Chef. What’s next?”

With the dough resting in the fridge, you began tidying up, wiping down the counter and setting out the tools you’d need for shaping the cookies. Ben, however, wasn’t nearly as patient. He leaned against the fridge door, staring at it like he could will the dough to finish resting faster.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “do we have to wait for an hour? Can’t we just… you know, start shaping them now? It's not like we're in an exam, no one's gonna know.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching the almost puppy-like look in his eyes. “Yes, we absolutely have to wait,” you said firmly, though you couldn’t help but smile at his impatience.

Ben groaned dramatically, dragging his hand down his face and through his curls, tussling them softly. “But why? It’s just dough. It’s not like it’s a steak that needs to rest or something.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached into a drawer to pull out the cookie cutters. “Because,” you explained, setting the cutters on the counter, “resting the dough lets the gluten relax, which keeps the cookies from spreading too much when they bake. It also gives the spices time to blend together and makes the dough easier to roll out. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

Ben sighed, back again with that sceptical look, before mumbling, “Sounds like a lot of fancy science talk just to make some cookies.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, grinning at him. “But it’s the kind of science that keeps your cookies from turning into sad little blobs.”

He broke into a smile, finally conceding. “Fine, fine. You’re the expert.”

“Thank you,” you said with mock seriousness, giving him a teasing salute before focusing on your setup.

While the dough rested, you busied yourself with preparing the island. You got Ben on an exploration to find a large rolling pin and the cookie cutters, while you dusted the surface and neatly lined up the equipment, spreading them out across the counter as excitement spread through you. There were hearts, stars, gingerbread men and women, Christmas trees, and a few other festive shapes.

Ben watched you work, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “You love preppin', huh?”

“Always,” you replied, tossing him a smile as you laid sheets of parchment paper onto baking trays. “Baking is all about being ready before the chaos starts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Chaos?”

“You’ll see,” you said ominously, grabbing a canister of flour and sprinkling a thin layer across the island. “Just wait until we’re elbow-deep in icing and sprinkles.”

Ben chuckled, stepping closer as you worked. “Oh, that sounds like my kind of chaos.”

Once everything was set up, you took a step back, admiring your handiwork. The counter was clean, floured, and ready to go, with the trays and cutters neatly arranged. Ben, however, was back to pacing near the fridge, occasionally glancing at the clock.

Once the dough had rested, you pulled it from the fridge and placed it on the floured countertop, its chilled surface smooth and pliable under your hands. Ben leaned in eagerly, eyeing the mound of dough like it was a prize.

"Alright," you said, handing him the rolling pin, "your turn. Just don’t go too wild. Nice and even, okay?”

He raised an eyebrow, gripping the rolling pin with an exaggerated flourish. “Nice and even. Got it. I’m basically a pro already.”

“Uh-huh,” you teased, stepping back to preheat the oven.

Ben pressed the rolling pin to the dough and began rolling, his movements a little uneven at first. He squinted down at the dough, muttering, “This is harder than it looks.”

You glanced over, biting back a laugh. “It’s not a race, Ben. Just take your time and keep it even.”

“Don’t worry, I understand it now” he whispered, almost to himself, as he shot you a grin. “I’ve got it handled. Gimme a second and this dough’ll be flatter than a pancake.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you prepared the cookie cutters, dipping them lightly into flour to keep the shapes clean.

Once the dough was rolled out to the perfect thickness, you stepped in, lining up the cutters.

“Okay, now for the fun part,” you said, handing him a gingerbread man cutter. “Start with this one. We’ll work our way through all the shapes.”

Ben pressed the cutter into the dough, lifting it to reveal a cleanly cut gingerbread man. He held it up like a trophy, beaming. “Look at that! First try. Told you I’m a natural.”

“Alright, natural,” you said, handing him a Christmas tree cutter. “Let’s see how you do with the next one.”

The two of you fell into a steady rhythm, cutting out hearts, stars, and more gingerbread men and women. Ben found himself holding up each shape, constantly amazed and proud before gently setting the cookies down onto the parchment paper.

As he cut out another gingerbread man, he paused, holding up one of each. “Now, hold on. We gotta make sure there’s an equal number of these two.” He gestured between the gingerbread man and woman cutters. “Gotta keep things fair. Equality and all.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “How very noble of you.”

“I’m serious!” he insisted, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed him. “We’re not gonna have more dudes than ladies on the tray. That’d be unbalanced.”

“Okay, okay,” you relented, humouring him. “Equality it is.”

As the shapes piled up, flour seemed to cover everything and everyone. Ben had a streak of it across his cheek, and you could feel it dusting your own hands, arms, and even your clothes. At one point, he reached across to grab another cutter and left a powdery handprint on your sleeve.

“Ben!” you exclaimed, pointing to the mark.

He glanced down at his flour-covered hand, then back at you, his grin widening. “Oops. Too focused on the task at hand.”

You shook your head, fighting back a smile. Despite the mess, you were both surprisingly focused, working in sync as you filled tray after tray with perfectly cut cookies. The shapes were neat and even, and the dough scraps were rolled back together with care to minimise waste.

“You know,” Ben said as he carefully placed a gingerbread woman onto a tray, “I’m impressed. I thought for sure I’d mess this up by now.”

“You’re doing great,” you said, genuinely impressed by his effort. “See? Patience pays off.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he teased, brushing a bit of flour off his hands. “I’m still not sold on this whole ‘waiting for the dough’ thing.”

“You’ll thank me when the cookies turn out perfect,” you shot back, sliding the trays into the preheated oven.

Ben stood back, surveying the trays of cookies with a satisfied look. “Alright,” he said, crossing his arms. “What’s next? More science lessons, or are we finally gonna taste-test these bad boys?”

“Not yet,” you said with a laugh. “We still have decorating to do. And no, you’re not eating them straight out of the oven.”

“Why not?” he drawled, feigning a pout.

“Because,” you said, placing a hand around his waist, “burnt tongues aren’t fun.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit,” he admitted, as he put his head in his hands, groaning.

“Really? I would've never guessed,” you said dryly, earning a playful nudge from him.

“Alright, what can I do while we wait?” he asked, clearly trying to distract himself.

You handed him a dishcloth and pointed to the floor where flour had inevitably dusted its surface. “You can start by cleaning that up.”

Ben groaned but grabbed the cloth anyway, crouching down to wipe the floor. “Slave labour,” he muttered under his breath, though the smirk on his face gave him away.

“You’re the one who asked for something to do,” you pointed out, crossing your arms as you watched him.

He glanced up at you, his grin widening. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget this when I’m a pro-level cookie decorator later.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said with a laugh. “I won’t.”

"You’re on decorating prep duty, babe. No rest for two pros like us.”

“Deal,” you said, as you hauled over the bags of powdered sugar, food colouring, and piping bags from the counters. As Ben wiped down the counter, his movements methodical but still sprinkled with his usual flair, you busied yourself mixing the icing. The clinking of bowls and the soft sound of Ben scrubbing created a cozy rhythm. You glanced over occasionally, catching the sight of him brushing stray flour onto the floor with a sheepish grin.

“Hey,” you called out, pointing a spatula at him. “I saw that.”

He froze mid-swipe, his grin widening. “What? The counter’s clean, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, giggling, and returned to your icing. With a careful hand, you divided the thick, glossy mixture into separate bowls, adding drops of food colouring until you had a rainbow of festive hues: deep red, vibrant green, black, soft white, and even a cheerful yellow.

Ben, having finished the counter, moved onto the floor. “How does flour even get under the table?” he muttered, crouching down to clean up.

“Halo probably helped,” you teased, glancing at the dog, who was padding through the house innocently.

“Traitor.”

As the first batch of cookies began to brown in the oven, the warm scent of spices filled the air. You could feel your shoulders relax as you peeked through the oven door. The cookies were holding their shape perfectly, with no spreading, no cracking.

“Success,” you whispered to yourself, relieved.

Ben stood up, dusting his hands on his sweatpants. “Counter’s spotless. Floor’s… basically there too.” He leaned against the island, watching as you filled the piping bags with icing and lined up the bowls of candy, mini M&Ms, jelly tots, and even icing pearls.

“This is starting to look serious,” he commented.

Ben didn’t wait for an invitation. He reached out, snagging a still-steaming gingerbread man from the tray.

“Ben!” you exclaimed. “It’s hot!”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said through a wince, pulling the cookie back quickly and blowing on it. He took a cautious bite, only to pause, his face twisting.

“Ow!”

You couldn’t help but sigh at the way he pouted, holding the cookie gingerly in one hand.

“I warned you,” you said, stepping closer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his pout deepening.

Still laughing, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to distract him from his discomfort. When you pulled back, his expression had shifted from a pout to a sheepish smile.

“Guess it was worth it,” he murmured, his voice warm.

You rolled your eyes playfully, taking the cookie from his hand and setting it back on the rack. “You’ll get your turn when they cool down. Patience, remember?”

“Patience is overrated, babe,” he said, but his grin told you he wasn’t serious.

As the cookies cooled, you finished preparing the decorating station, laying everything out neatly. Ben leaned against the counter, watching you with an easy smile. The kitchen felt brighter, and warmer, with the two of you moving around each other in sync. The air smelled of gingerbread, and the promise of creative chaos hung in the air.

Finally, it was time to start decorating. You handed Ben a piping bag filled with red icing and grabbed a green one for yourself. “Okay, let’s see those artistic skills,” you teased.

“Oh, prepare to be amazed,” he said, squeezing the bag experimentally.

The first few cookies were simple, a heart with white trim, and a star with bright yellow accents, but the moment Ben decided to create a gingerbread woman to resemble you, all bets were off.

“Hold still,” he said, squinting at you with a ridiculous level of concentration.

“Ben, it’s a cookie, not a portrait session.”

“Shh. Art takes focus,” he said, holding up a finger up dramatically.

You watched as he gave the gingerbread woman what was supposed to be your hair but looked more like lopsided spaghetti. The face was slightly off-centre, and the dress he attempted was smudged in one corner. When he finally set the piping bag down, he stepped back with a proud grin.

“Ta-da!” he announced, holding it up for you to see.

You stared at the cookie and burst out laughing. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“It’s abstract,” he defended. “You don’t get it ‘cause it’s, like, high-level creativity.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. “I think I’ll stick to realism.”

You got to work on your gingerbread man, deciding to return the favour as you made a gingerbread version of Ben, giving him signature curly hair, his big grin, and, of course, his ON tennis kit, complete in black with a bright pink line in its detailing.

When you showed him the finished cookie, his eyes widened, clearly taking it sorely. “Okay, I see what you’re doin’. Showin’ me up.”

“It’s not a competition,” you teased.

“Everything’s a competition,” he said, but the small smile on his face told you he didn’t mind losing this one.

Next, you both decided to make cookies representing the rest of the family. Bryan’s gingerbread man got a blue sweater, Lisa’s had an apron and a pearl necklace, and Emma’s had her glasses and a small, closed-eye smile.

“Think they’ll recognise themselves?” you asked, tilting your head as you studied the lineup of gingerbread people.

“They’d better,” Ben said, carefully adding a final swirl of icing to Lisa’s apron. “I put effort into this.”

By the time you’d decorated the rest of the cookies, trees, stars, hearts, and more, the sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The oven was off, the counters were cleared, and the air was filled with the lingering smell of gingerbread and icing sugar. Just as you were cleaning up the last bits of mess, the front door opened, and the sound of laughter and familiar voices filled the house.

“Y’all home?” Lisa called out.

“In the kitchen!” Ben answered, rinsing the last mixing bowl in the sink.

Lisa and Bryan walked in first, carrying shopping and takeout bags, with Emma trailing behind. The three of them paused when they saw the island covered with cookies, their eyes immediately landing on the five gingerbread figures standing together at the front of the spread.

“What …on earth...?” Bryan said, leaning in to examine the cookies more closely. His eyes darted from the gingerbread man with a blue sweater to the one wearing an apron, and his face broke into a grin. “Are these supposed to be us?”

Lisa gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my gosh, look at this!” She reached out delicately, picking up the cookie version of herself. “This is adorable, what a sweet surprise! Is that… an apron? You even added pearls!”

“That one’s me!” Emma crowed, pointing to the gingerbread woman with glasses and a massive smile. “I look so happy. Accurate.”

“Yeah, that was intentional,” you said with a smirk, glancing at Ben, who gave you a sly grin in return.

Bryan carefully picked up his cookie, inspecting the details. “Meanwhile all I got was a bald cookie and a sweater. Real funny.”

“You love sweaters, Dad,” Ben teased, drying his hands with a kitchen towel. “Don’t act like it’s not spot-on.”

Lisa placed her cookie back on the tray and turned to you, beaming. “This is so precious. Did you two make all of these today?”

“All day,” you confirmed, leaning against the counter. “We went all out, cutting, baking, decorating. Ben even rolled out the dough.”

“Don’t let her fool ya,” Ben drawled, nudging your shoulder with his. “She was the boss in this operation. I was just the muscle.”

“And the comic relief,” you added.

Emma leaned over the tray, picking up one of the star-shaped cookies. “These look amazing. Did y’all seriously make all these by hand? No, like, premade stuff?”

“Handmade, start to finish,” Ben said, puffing out his chest. “We’re pros now.”

Lisa laughed, shaking her head. “Well, I’d say it was worth it. They’re beautiful. I almost don’t want to eat them.”

“Almost,” Bryan echoed, already reaching for one of the undecorated trees.

Ben darted forward, intercepting him. “Hold up! Food first. Cookies are dessert.”

“Who made you the dessert police?” Bryan asked, but he let the cookie go, chuckling as he set it back down.

Lisa set the takeout bags on the counter, and the family gathered around, plates and utensils being passed out as everyone helped themselves to the food. The conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and teasing, and the cookies remained at the centre of attention, a charming reminder of the day you and Ben had spent together.

Later, Ben stood with his arms crossed, watching his family laugh and talk as they picked out cookies to eat. When he noticed you looking, he gave you a soft, warm smile, the kind that made your chest feel full as he opened his arm to invite you in for a hug.

You walked over to him, settling into his side. “This turned out pretty great, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. He glanced at the tray of cookies again, then back to you. “Today was fun.”

You let your head rest on his shoulder. His arm slipped around your waist, holding you close as the room buzzed with warmth and love.

“Next time,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, “we’re makin’ gingerbread tennis rackets. I’ve got ideas to workshop.”

You sighed, feigning exasperation before laughing softly, tilting your head up to look at him. “I can’t wait to see how that turns out.”

“Better start stretchin’ my art portfolio now,” he teased, but the look in his eyes was anything but playful, soft, steady, and full of affection.

And just like that, in the middle of his childhood kitchen, surrounded by his family and the lingering scent of gingerbread, you realised this moment was one you’d hold onto for a long, long time.

[mariacallous]

The inside cover of my grandmother’s cookbook is inscribed with her handwriting, “Think of me when you cook.” It is a copy of the same spiral-bound book that has been given to all of the women in my family. “The Sephardic Cooks: Comé Con Gana” has somehow made its way from one synagogue in Atlanta to Sephardic communities and families from New Jersey to California. It has all the classic recipes, including a section titled “Main Dish Pastries.” These dishes are the cornerstone of the Sephardic tradition, desayuno.

The word “desayuno” literally translates to “breakfast” in Ladino, the dying Judeo-Spanish language historically spoken by Sephardic Jews. Yet, the meaning extends beyond that one meal. In Sephardic culture, desayunois a category of foods associated with the large Saturday morning meal that would be served after Shabbat, including egg dishes and savory pastries. 

These desayuno foods are some of my favorite things to eat and the ones I most associate with my own family traditions. The blocks of crustless quajado (spinach quiche) that always seemed to be in my childhood freezer, ready to thaw for lunch. The doughy, cheesy spinach boyos my grandmother would have ready for our breakfast every time we traveled to visit her. The pasteles (mini meat pies) my great-aunt taught to a room filled with four generations of cousins at our family reunion last summer. The rice-and-cheese-filled bureka pastries my mom comes over to make with my kids and me. 

While delicious and crowd-pleasing, these are also some of the most time-consuming recipes to prepare. I picture my great-grandmother standing in a friend’s kitchen as all the ladies of the community work together to knead mounds of dough, mix a vat of filling, fold and crimp sheets and sheets of burekas. Whether this is accurate or just my imagination justifying why it feels intimidating to make these by myself, desayuno pastries do not align well with today’s fast-paced, individual lifestyle. Save for the times my mom comes to bake with us (importantly, bringing a container of prepped filling), making dough and pastry from scratch is not happening in my kitchen. 

I hope to be a part of the thread that keeps Sephardic traditions alive, yet I do not want to let perfection be the enemy of my intentions. I think my grandmother would agree. While she baked burekas with all of her grandchildren and always had a freezer full of freshly baked rosca (coffee rolls), she was never one to turn down a good shortcut. She developed her own boyo recipe featuring Hungry-Jack biscuit dough as the base and once described to me a full lentil soup recipe, only to end it with, “or you could just buy a can of lentil soup.” She loved when I would call her to share that I had tried a Sephardic recipe, such as cinnamon biscocho cookies or lemon chicken soup. Whether my attempts had been successful or a flop (like my rock-hard biscochos), her smile would be audible through the phone saying, “I’m just so glad you tried.” 

As Sephardic culture and traditions fade and assimilate, food provides an important outlet to preserve history and share it with family and friends. More important than getting it right or spending hours in the kitchen is remembering our traditions, trying recipes, talking about or simply eating Sephardic foods, regardless of who made them.  

In that spirit, I would like to propose lowering our standards, for the greater good of keeping traditions alive. Consider a desayuno with fewer parts or with a little help from the freezer aisle. Rather than the large spread my ancestors would prepare for days in advance, consider making one thing from scratch (though I won’t tell if you cook zero things). You could make a batch of burekas or a quajado, arguably the easiest of the Sephardic breakfast dishes, or even just prepare a pot of hard-boiled eggs. Supplement with frozen spanakopita, Ta’amti Bourekas or a Trader Joe’s Greek cheese spiral for a full table. 

Nothing will taste quite like homemade pastries fresh from the oven and I still aspire to make them (occasionally). Yet, even when I munch a makeshift Sephardic meal, I will be thinking of my grandmother, just as she inscribed in her cookbook. As long as we are sharing food together, talking about Sephardic traditions, remembering meals and people who matter to us, I will call it desayuno. I think my grandmother would be proud. 

[sfarticles]

Cast-iron pan is durable and versatile

Skillet Nachos: Get deliciously crispy nachos by baking them in your cast-iron skillet. (Julia Rutland)

Column as it appears in Media News Group online newspapers

Cast-iron pan is durable and versatile

For many cooks, the well-seasoned and quite often handed down cast-iron pan is a favorite cooking vessel.

While perusing the cookbook shelves at a thrift shop, I decided to explore the kitchenware section. Wow! There were so many cast-iron pots and pans waiting for their new owners to take them home, clean up the rust spots and season them so their culinary history can continue.

There was one pan by Birmingham Stove & Range Co., a now defunct producer of top-quality cast-iron cookware. From what I was told, in good condition, they are worth much more than the $8 price at the thrift shop. I then wondered why it was still on the shelf.

Well, perhaps it is because people couldn’t see past the couple of rust spots or the scraped company emblem on the pan’s bottom, and therefore didn’t know its value. Not needing more cast iron, I passed on buying it. The collector who finds this treasure will transport it into its new era of cooking, perhaps making corn bread, stews and biscuits.

I recently interviewed Julia Rutland, author of “Cast-Iron Cooking: Fresh and Timeless Comfort Food for Sharing” (Adventure Publications, $22.99).

“Whether you’re using your great-grandparents’ used, cast-iron skillet or are shopping for a new Dutch oven, the book advises on how to select, season, and properly care for this versatile cookware,” she said.

Think of the book as Cast-Iron 101, covering how cast iron is made, a history of cast iron in the United States (“European settlers brought with them thick, heavy pots designed with ‘feet’ to be used over an open fire”), collecting vintage pots, benefits and styles, seasoning, cleaning, how to fix problems and over 150 recipes for flavorful dishes including breads, stews, pizza and dessert.

My Q & A with Rutland revealed quite a bit about these durable and versatile cooking vessels.

Q: How did you first get into cooking with cast iron?

A: Living in the South, cornbread is made in cast iron … it is almost an unwritten rule here. I’ve been cooking on an induction cooktop for 17 years, and cast iron works great on it. It works on electric, gas, over a fire … it’s universal.

Q: Do you have a favorite cast-iron piece in your collection?

A: It depends upon what I am making. My 12-inch skillet is my go-to. For soups and stews it is an enamel coated Dutch oven. Staub and Le Creuset are brands I like; U.S. made cast iron.

Q: What are common mistakes people make when cooking with cast iron?

A: Too hot of a pan. Medium-high works best unless you are blackening.

Q: Are there any dishes that work surprisingly well in cast iron?

A: Corn bread, blackened fish. It is great for browning, caramelization and frying.

Q: What about dishes that don’t work well?

A: Cakes are the trickiest.

Q: What are some tips for seasoning and maintaining cast iron?

A: After cooking meat or fish, rinse with a bit of soap; vegetables, only hot water. Make sure you dry the pan. Keep it upside down so it doesn’t puddle. Rub a thin coat of oil on it.

Q: What are your go-to recipes using cast-iron?

A: Corn bread, it is an easy side dish. Beef stew in the Dutch oven. The dish on the front cover of the book (Pan-Roasted Chicken Provencal), Hasselback potatoes, cinnamon roll coffee cake.

Q: What recipe in the book would you say is unique?

A: Butter Swim Biscuits. The headnote says: “These biscuits are known for their rich, buttery flavor, and soft, tender texture. They’re unique because they are baked in a cast-iron skillet that is ‘swimming’ in butter before the batter is poured in. The edges get crisp and are arguably the best part.”

Q: How did you develop the recipes in the book?

A: I took dishes that I make and was curious how they would do in cast iron.

Q: Which is the recipe readers must make?

A: Pan-Roasted Chicken Provencal

Q: What’s one myth about cast-cooking that you would like to debunk?

A: Many people find it intimidating. That might be when first using cast iron. With proper seasoning and washing, it will become a favorite way to cook.

Q: What are the best brands to purchase?

A: Lodge is good for entry level. For premium enamel coated, Staub or Le Creuset. Field Co., a premium brand, produces a smoother interior.

Q: What do you hope the reader gets from the book?

A: Learn the basics of cast-iron cooking, make it their go-to cooking method and have fun.

Start with these recipes. For the recipes for Potato and Bacon Breakfast Skillet and Skillet Nachos visit https://stephenfries.com/recipes.

Cinnamon Roll Coffee Cake

The headnote says: “I initially placed this recipe in the dessert chapter before deciding to add it to the breads-and-breakfast section because it’s essentially a sweet quick bread. Quick breads use baking powder and/or baking soda instead of yeast and are considered quick because there is no lengthy rising time involved.”

Makes 6 to 8 servings

Equipment: 10-inch cast-iron skillet

Pan savvy: Either round or square cast-iron skillets will work. Square or rectangle servings are typical, but the sweet bread will taste just as delicious when cut into wedges from a round pan.

Ingredients:

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

½ cup granulated sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt

¾ cup whole milk

¼ cup melted salted or unsalted butter

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Brown Sugar-Cinnamon Topping (recipe follows)

½ cup chopped pecans

Glaze (recipe follows)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 10-inch cast-iron skillet.

Combine flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Combine milk, butter, eggs, and vanilla in another bowl. Add milk mixture to flour mixture, stirring just until blended (do not overmix).

Spoon batter into prepared skillet. Drizzle Brown Sugar-Cinnamon Topping over batter, sprinkle with pecans, and swirl with a knife.

Bake for 30 minutes or until golden brown and firm in center. Drizzle with Glaze.

Brown Sugar-Cinnamon Topping: Combine ½ cup melted salted or unsalted butter, ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar, 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour, and 1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon in a medium bowl. Makes about 2/3 cup.

Glaze: Combine ½ cup powdered sugar, 1 tablespoon whole milk, and ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract in a small bowl. Makes ¼ cup.

Start the day on a sweet note when you make this scrumptious coffee cake topped with the flavors of the beloved handheld breakfast treat. Or serve it in the late afternoon with tea and good conversation.

Pepper Steak Stir-Fry

The headnote says: “The heat of cast iron creates a delicious crusty-edged steak, but it doesn’t reduce quickly. To avoid scorching the meal, have all your ingredients and sauce mixture prepped ahead. Make sure the beef is very cold, as it’s easier to thinly slice meat that’s chilled till semi-frozen. While this dish is mild and universally appealing, I like a bit of spice, so I’ll drizzle sriracha and hoisin sauce over my serving.”

Makes 4 to 6 servings

Equipment: 12-inch cast-iron skillet

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon avocado or vegetable oil

2 teaspoons sesame oil

½ cup beef broth or water

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

1 tablespoon cornstarch

3 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce

1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar

3 bell peppers (any color), cut into strips

½ white onion, sliced

1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 to 1 ½ pounds lean flank or sirloin steak, very thinly sliced

1/8 teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper

Hot cooked rice

Sriracha sauce or hoisin sauce (optional)

Directions:

Combine avocado oil and sesame oil in a small bowl. Combine broth, sugar, cornstarch, soy sauce, and vinegar in another small bowl; set broth mixture aside.

Heat half of oil mixture in a cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add bell peppers and onion. Cook, stirring constantly, for 3 to 4 minutes. Add ginger and garlic; cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Transfer bell pepper mixture to a platter.

Heat remaining half of oil mixture in skillet over medium-high heat. Sprinkle steak with salt and black pepper. Add steak and cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes or until browned on all sides. Stir in reserved broth mixture. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and cook for 1 minute or until sauce thickens. Stir in bell pepper mixture.

Serve over hot cooked rice, and drizzle with sriracha sauce, if desired.

Hasselback Potatoes

The headnote says: “This dish is distinctive with its accordion-like slices of potato cooked with butter, fresh herbs, and cheese. The edges become crispy in the oven, while the interior of the potato remains tender. Multiple slices mean the tempting flavors can seep into the potato, making every bite delicious. I prefer smaller Yukon Gold or gold potatoes, but you can use russet potatoes, if you like. Large potatoes will require more baking time to become tender.”

Makes 6 servings

Equipment: 12- or 10-inch cast-iron skillet

Pan savvy: The same weight of small potatoes will take up more room in the skillet than fewer, larger potatoes. Adjust the size of the pan based on the size of the potatoes. You can test by placing them in the skillet before washing and prepping.

Ingredients:

1 ½ pounds small Yukon Gold or gold potatoes

¼ cup salted butter, melted

¼ teaspoon paprika

1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt

1/8 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper

2 tablespoons grated Romano or Parmesan cheese

1 garlic clove, minced

1 tablespoon chopped fresh herbs (rosemary and/or parsley)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Slice a thin layer along each potato to create a flat base so potatoes don’t roll. Place, flat side down, on a cutting board; cut 1/8-inch-thick slices into — but not completely through — each potato. (Place chopsticks or wooden spoons on either side as guides to stop you from cutting all the way through.)

Place potatoes in a large skillet. Combine butter, paprika, salt, pepper, cheese, and garlic in a bowl. Brush about half of butter mixture over potatoes, making sure butter mixture gets in between slices. Cover with aluminum foil and bake for 45 minutes or until potatoes are almost tender.

Brush potatoes with the remaining half of butter mixture. Bake, uncovered, for 15 to 20 more minutes or until crisp and golden on the outside and tender on the inside. Spoon-melted butter from bottom of pan over potatoes. Sprinkle with fresh herbs.

Recipes courtesy of

Photos by Julia Rutland

Stephen Fries is professor emeritus and former coordinator of the Hospitality Management Programs at Gateway Community College in New Haven, Conn. He has been a food and culinary travel columnist for the past 17 years and is co-founder of and host of “Worth Tasting,” a culinary walking tour of downtown New Haven, and three-day culinary adventures around the U.S. He is a board member of the International Association of Culinary Professionals. Email him at Stephen@stephenfries.com. For more, go to stephenfries.com.

[okokbiscut]

OkOkBiscut

The sheets are then bent to shape. By about 1850, Great Britain had become the dominant world supplier of tin plate, through a combination of technical innovation and political control over most of the suppliers of tin ore. 

The breakthrough in decorative tin plate production was the invention of the offset lithographic process. It consists of bringing a sheet of rubber into contact with the decorated stone, and then setting-off the impression so obtained upon the metal surface. The advantages over previous methods of printing were that any number of colours could be used, correctly positioned, and applied to an uneven surface if necessary. Thus the elaborately embossed, colourful designs that were such a feature of the late Victorian biscuit tin industry became technically possible.

The introduction of the baking of processed cereals, including the creation of flour, provided a more reliable source of food. Egyptian sailors carried a flat, brittle loaf of millet bread called dhourra cake while the Romans had a biscuit called  Roman cookbook Apicius describes: “a thick paste of fine wheat flour was boiled and spread out on a plate. When it had dried and hardened, it was cut up and then fried until crisp, then served with honey and pepper.” Many early physicians believed that most medicinal problems were associated with digestion. Hence, for both sustenance and avoidance of illness, a daily consumption of a biscuit was considered good for health. Hard biscuits soften as they age. To solve this problem, early bakers attempted to create the hardest biscuit possible. Because it is so hard and dry, if properly stored and transported, navies’ hardtack will survive rough handling and high temperature. Baked hard, it can be kept without spoiling for years as long as it is kept dry. For long voyages, hardtack was baked four times, rather than the more common two.[12] To soften hardtack for eating, it was often dunked in brine, coffee, or some other liquid or cooked into a skillet meal. The collection Sayings of the Desert Fathers mentions that Anthony the Great (who lived in the 4th century AD) ate biscuits and the text implies that it was a popular food among monks of the time and region  At the time of the Spanish Armada in 1588, the daily allowance on board a Royal Navy ship was one pound of biscuit plus one gallon of beer. Samuel Pepys in 1667 first regularised naval victualling with varied and nutritious rations. Royal Navy hardtack during Queen Victoria‘s reign was made by machine at the Royal Clarence Victualling Yard at Gosport, Hampshire, stamped with the Queen’s mark and the number of the oven in which they were baked. When machinery was introduced into the process the dough was thoroughly mixed and rolled into sheets about 2 yards (1.8 m) long and 1 yard (0.9 m) wide which were stamped in one stroke into about sixty hexagonal-shaped biscuits. This left the sheets sufficiently coherent to be placed in the oven in one piece and when baked they were easy to separate. The hexagonal shape rather than traditional circular biscuits meant a saving in material and was easier to pack.[14] Biscuits remained an important part of the Royal Navy sailor’s diet until the introduction of canned foods. Canned meat was first marketed in 1814; preserved beef in tins was officially added to Royal Navy rations in 184. Early biscuits were hard, dry, and unsweetened. They were most often cooked after bread, in a cooling bakers’ oven; they were a cheap form of sustenance for the poor. By the 7th century AD, cooks of the Persian empire had learnt from their forebears the techniques of lightening and enriching bread-based mixtures with eggs, butter, and cream, and sweetening them with fruit and honey.[4] One of the earliest spiced biscuits was gingerbread, in French, pain  meaning “spice bread”, brought to Europe in 992 by the Armenian monk Grégoire de Nicopolis. He left Nicopolis Pompeii, of Lesser Armenia to live in Bondaroy, France, near the town of Pithiviers. 

[rockislandadultreads]

AAPI Heritage Month: Cookbooks to Check Out

The Honeysuckle Cookbook: 100 Healthy, Feel-Good Recipes to Live Deliciously by Dzung Lewis

The Honeysuckle Cookbook is stuffed with exciting ideas for easy, approachable, Asian-influenced cooking at home. With 100 recipes, from the breakfast favorites that consistently rate the highest in views on the author's popular YouTube channel (like her Overnight Oats, 6 Ways) to original twists on one-pan and pressure-cooker meals, this book is for those of us who want feel-good meals made healthy, delicious, and quick. Dzung's recipes take the familiar and turns it ever-so-slightly on its head: Marinara sauce gets extra umami with the addition of fish sauce, while mac and cheese becomes more than an out-of-the-box staple when made fresh with kimchi. Lattes get an extra kick from bold Vietnamese coffee and sweet, floral lavender, and quinoa pilaf is mixed with a creamy curry-miso dressing. Dzung also teaches readers how to stretch groceries so they spend a little less money, how to plan meals seasonally, and how to match main courses with sides so plates look impressive and taste great. With quick snack ideas, recipe hacks, foolproof instructions, and genius tips for pretty presentation, The Honeysuckle Cookbook will be the friendly hand busy young cooks need to hold in the kitchen.

Cook Real Hawai'i: A Cookbook by Sheldon Simeon, Garrett Snyder

The story of Hawaiian cooking, by a two-time Top Chef finalist and Fan Favorite, through 100 recipes that embody the beautiful cross-cultural exchange of the islands. Even when he was winning accolades and adulation for his cooking, two-time Top Chef finalist Sheldon Simeon decided to drop what he thought he was supposed to cook as a chef. He dedicated himself instead to the local Hawai‘i food that feeds his ‘ohana—his family and neighbors. With uncomplicated, flavor-forward recipes, he shows us the many cultures that have come to create the cuisine of his beloved home: the native Hawaiian traditions, Japanese influences, Chinese cooking techniques, and dynamic Korean, Portuguese, and Filipino flavors that are closest to his heart. Through stunning photography, poignant stories, and dishes like wok-fried poke, pork dumplings made with biscuit dough, crispy cauliflower katsu, and charred huli-huli chicken slicked with a sweet-savory butter glaze, Cook Real Hawai‘i will bring a true taste of the cookouts, homes, and iconic mom and pop shops of Hawai‘i into your kitchen.

Filipinx: Heritage Recipes from the Diaspora by Angela Dimayuga, Ligaya Mishan, Alex Lau (Photographs)

Filipinx offers 100 deeply personal recipes—many of them dishes that define home for Angela Dimayuga and the more than four million people of Filipino descent in the United States. The book tells the story of how Dimayuga grew up in an immigrant family in northern California, trained in restaurant kitchens in New York City—learning to make everything from bistro fare to Asian-American cuisine—then returned to her roots, discovering in her family’s home cooking the same intense attention to detail and technique she’d found in fine dining. In this book, Dimayuga puts a fresh spin on classics: adobo, perhaps the Filipino dish best known outside the Philippines, is traditionally built on a trinity of soy sauce, vinegar, and garlic—all pantry staples—but add coconut milk, vinegar, and oil, and it turns lush and silky; ribeye steaks bring extra richness to bistek, gilded with butter and a bright splash of lemon and orange juice. These are the punches of flavor and inspired recipes that home cooks have been longing for. A modern, welcoming resource for this essential cuisine, Filipinx shares exciting and approachable recipes everyone will wholeheartedly embrace in their own kitchens.

My Shanghai: Recipes and Stories from a City on the Water by Betty Liu

Filled with galleries, museums, and gleaming skyscrapers, Shanghai is a modern metropolis and the world’s largest city proper, the home to twenty-four million inhabitants and host to eight million visitors a year. “China’s crown jewel” (Vogue), Shanghai is an up-and-coming food destination, filled with restaurants that specialize in international cuisines, fusion dishes, and chefs on the verge of the next big thing. It is also home to some of the oldest and most flavorful cooking on the planet. Betty Liu, whose family has deep roots in Shanghai and grew up eating homestyle Shanghainese food, provides an enchanting and intimate look at this city and its abundant cuisine. In this sumptuous book, part cookbook, part travelogue, part cultural study, she cuts to the heart of what makes Chinese food Chinese—the people, their stories, and their family traditions. Organized by season, My Shanghai takes us through a year in the Shanghai culinary calendar, with flavorful recipes that go beyond the standard, well-known fare, and stories that illuminate diverse communities and their food rituals. Chinese food is rarely associated with seasonality. Yet as Liu reveals, the way the Shanghainese interact with the seasons is the essence of their cooking: what is on a dinner table is dictated by what is available in the surrounding waters and fields. Live seafood, fresh meat, and ripe vegetables and fruits are used in harmony with spices to create a variety of refined dishes all through the year.

[starstruckmyths]

Steve and Bucky being stress bakers. Some bad shit happens in the world and they punch at too much dough ending up with a bakery worth bread.

Stressssssss bakkerrssssssssss

I’ve probably said it already, but I’ll say it again: Steve admitted to being a shitty cook in Endgame, but every part in me knows that he’d make a brilliant baker. Steve is a super-soldier, so he would be really precise. 

My mom once told me, "Cooking is about feeling. Baking is about getting everything exactly right". 

Cooking is about trying out, it’s about what you like, adding more or less spices, sweet or sour or salty. Steve probably doesn't really have the cooking-gut-feeling, so he wouldn't be good at it. On the other hand, Steve is amazing at being precise. He would follow the recipes to the letter. Bucky would as well. They’re both soldiers, both have wielded weapons, and both have been in situations where they cannot lose any focus or everyone dies. So they’re really good at estimating how much sugar a “spoonful” is ;)

And then now, I will write you a little piece. 

|X|

The Avengers weren’t home, and Steve was sitting around in the comfy armchair, staring at his drawing pad but nothing came out of his pencil. It just... refused to let him draw anything. 

Bucky was still asleep, bundled up in the bedroom after one of the worst missions Steve had ever been on. It had not been particularly gruesome or nasty, but the bad guy had gotten away, he had fallen into a muddy ditch, Tony had crashed into a tree, Sam nearly got caught in some power lines, Clint had gotten his foot stuck in a hole in the ground, and Bucky had been hit by a car. 

All in all, a pretty laugh-worthy mission. 

And now here he was, his head still not entirely right and Bucky sleeping off the pain of his cracked ribs. He was frustrated. And hungry. He did not really feel up to anything, or rather he did, but he was not sure what that was. He wanted to eat something, a snack of some sort. Perhaps a cookie. Something sweet. Were their any cookies left or had the rest of the team gotten them all?

Steve pushed himself up out of the armchair and left his drawing pad on the coffee table, strolling over towards the kitchen where he pulled open some cabinets and looked for the cookie tin. Ah, there it was. As soon as he opened it, he scrunched his nose. Three tiny biscuits and a bunch of crumbs. Sighing loudly, he ate the last three cookies and thumbed the crumbs from the tin. Now it was really empty, and boy did that suck. 

“That’s not nearly enough,” he mumbled to himself, and he turned around to the counter. 

He looked in a few more cabinets, trying to lower his standards to what he was willing to eat, until he found a book. A cookbook. Steve made a curious noise, and pulled the thing out. Cooking was not really his thing, but he had often helped his mom bake, so perhaps he could make something out of that. It really was two birds with one stone: with the book, he could distract himself and get himself some more snacks. Win-win. 

It couldn’t go wrong, he just had to do what the book said and he would be fine. The book seemed to be more focused on baking than cooking anyway, so he was golden. There was a whole list of things to make, a bunch of cakes and other sweet snacks, but mostly cookies. Cookies with apple, chocolate, jam, nuts, honey, cinnamon, and more. 

This wasn’t a cookbook, this was a cookie-book.  

He had most of the ingredients, so that was a plus. Now, he only had to pick one kind of cookie from the list, and he was good! Only, they all looked so good. The one with apples, and with honey, and nuts... he picked the one with chocolate. He was feeling something for chocolate at the moment. 

And so he grabbed himself the flour, eggs, milk, oil, chocolate, and baking powder. He put the book against the backsplash of the kitchen, so he could read along as he went. He put the ingredients together and mixed it all with a spoon to get rid of at least some of his pent-up energy. 

“Let the dough rest for half an hour,” Steve read from the book. He scrunched up his nose again, deeper this time, and read the sentence another time. Half an hour. Half an hour? What was he supposed to do in the meantime?! Wait around? 

Stuffing the dough into the oven, he huffed in annoyance, lying his head in his neck as he tried to think of something he could do while waiting a whole half hour. 

But wait!

Instead of waiting around, he could bake the other cookies! Cookies with apple, with cinnamon, with peanut butter, jam, and all the others! That way, he could keep baking even when he had to wait for the dough! They had ovens and space to spare, so no one would mind, really. Steve pulled his stuff together and went to work straight away. 

Half an hour passed. 

Dough went in and out of the oven. 

The pile of flour and eggs became smaller and smaller, but Steve barely noticed as his stack of cookies only grew. 

He baked, and he baked, and he baked, without even looking at the clock. 

The whole kitchen smelled of fresh cookies, molten chocolate, and more. It had drawn Bucky to the kitchen, bandages wrapped around his chest, and he joined in. With the combined power of two super soldiers kneading and stirring the dough, cutting apples and chocolate, piling cookie after cookie after cookie onto the oven racks, they worked down the list cookie by cookie.

The entire counter was filled with all kinds of delicious things, crumbs and nuts and chocolate and honey and peanut butter and more. Another half an hour went passed, and then an hour, and then double that! There was flour on their faces, stains on their aprons, the cookbook was sticky, peanut butter in their hair, but neither Steve or Bucky paid it any mind as they baked as if their life depended on it. 

It turned dark outside, the sun dipping behind the horizon, but neither of them noticed, too caught up in their baking spell to stop. 

Then, late in the evening, the Avengers returned home, tired and worn out from their duty, some of them (Clint and Tony) were a little grumpy. There was light still coming from the kitchen, and as soon as the doors of the elevator opened the team was hit in the face by the taunting smell of cookies, cinnamon and honey. 

“Great,” Clint grumbled, “Now I’m hungry.”

“You think they left some for us?” Sam asked, standing on his near tiptoes as he took another deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so. 

Natasha was the first to step forward and out of the elevator. “Let’s hope they did.”

The very moment they stepped foot into the kitchen they were met with a sight that was both many’s personal wonderland, but also an almost terrifying one. 

Somehow, the entire kitchen was filled with stacks, heaps and piles of cookies. The entire counter save for a few tiny gaps was filled with cookies. Big cookies, small cookies, cookies with apple and honey and peanut butter, pale cookies, dark cookies. There were cookies on the cupboards, on top of the fridge, there were even cookies laid out on newspapers on the floor. And in the middle, Bucky and Steve were moving around, seemingly still baking. 

They thought they had to be dreaming. 

“Wha- wha-” Tony stumbled, “What have you done?”

Steve lifted his head from the book, his eyes slightly wider than could be normal, and he stared with the gaze of a man who had seen terrible things. In his arm, he clutched a bowl, holding it tightly as his other hand moved around a large spoon. “We baked some cookies.”

Bucky turned around, a fresh batch in his hands, holding it out towards the others. “Want one?”

|X|

Please forgive me, Nonnie. 

[omer-nacar]

WHEN: 12th February  WHERE: Daylesford Organic, Notting Hill  WITH: @kashvis​

Omer was craving the lemon and white chocolate biscuits from Daylesford, his coffee from Sally Clarke and cinnamon bun with cardamon from the old man with the pop up stand just off Portobello Road had not been enough to satisfy his sweet tooth. He was certain that he could find some new treats from the overly pretentious organic shop which he both loved and hated at the same time. Turning onto Westbourne Grove, Omer walked in, a smile on his lips as he greeted the man by the tills. “Good afternoon.”

It was not the biggest of shops, quite cramped when it was a busy day but today it seemed to be calm. Turning to his left to where the fresh produce was, Omer noticed the familiar slender figure looking down at some of the vegetables a smile forming on his lips at the sight of Kashvi Singh. “I wouldn’t get that if I were you, look at how sad and droopy it looks.” he shook his head, as he approached Kashvi, picking up a fresher looking batch of carrots, a cheeky grin formed on his lips as his eyes met hers. Omer would never buy his fruit and vegetable here, it was overpriced and never as good as the actual markets he would go to. This was the supermarket that people came to thinking they were buying the best of the best when that was usually not the case. “Also Kash, come on, those courgettes look like they’ve gone off. Look at how soft they are.” he tutted prodding the vegetable before replacing it, not that Kashvi had asked for his help.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, looking beautiful as ever Kash.” They were on opposing gangs now, when they had first met and started whatever it was that they had started. Omer was just settling into his new life in London then, a lot had changed since 2015, one of the biggest changes being Omer had re-entered the underworld and the two were in enemy gangs. That should have been enough of a reason for Omer to walk out of the store as soon as he had entered it, but, the light teasing of an old friend (even if Kashvi would not call him a friend) seemed like an entertaining option.

“So, I found this incredible fish market...honestly Kashvi the king prawns I buy there for the Prawn Ambot Tik,” Omer lifted his hand towards his mouth, pinching his fingers and thumb together, kissing them before tossing them away dramatically from his lips to make the gesture of chefs kisses. He had completely stolen that recipe from Kashvi, putting it in his menus and even dared to share it on Instagram and his cookbook, saying it was inspired by an old friend. “Absolutely incredible. I would highly recommend you go there. Maybe I’ll take you huh? Just like the good old times, I can teach you how to make Mantı and you can maybe give me that secret ingredient for the Chana Masala, mine always seems to be missing something.”

[fei-to-the-moon]

Boy (friend)

Just some good, short, ole one shot that I whipped up.  Scorbus!  Probably not CC-compliant, you tell me since not much context.  

------

There’s a boy in this coffeeshop. 

He sits there, cappuccino in hand.  His scarf is a blotchy thing with frayed edges, similar to his hair that sits all messy like a crow’s nest atop his head.    

His cheeks blush as your eyes meet from across the table, and he laughs at the right moment to your joke.  It’s not shrill, loud, or gaffing – the perfect temperature for your delicate ears with their snobby Malfoy sensibilities.   

His hands on the table, you like that they’re broad and long, each peeking through the hemmed sleeves of a plaid, butterscotch coat.  You give him a compliment on his endearing looks, one he easily accepts, perhaps too easily.  He tucks his hair, gives a tilt of his head at a good angle downwards with a shy smile.  He knows the look he’s giving off, as if he’s a lamb wrapped in what’s all soft and fluffy. 

But beneath lies a wolf, whose stares linger too much on your lips, whose eyes flicker occasionally to your body (and perhaps to what lies beneath?).  His hands dance on the table, as if waiting to pounce.  In his sleeves, he holds a deck of cards in each filled with magic tricks, and he’ll be like Houdini on stage with what he’ll show next.

An innocent play, he’ll brush over your soft, pale skin when you both reach for the biscuits in the tin set in the center.  A fleeting touch making you both yearn for more. 

Perhaps instead, he’ll playfully loop his hand into yours in the middle of a deep conversation where your eyes sink further into eachothers like the sea at sunset.

Or, even more gratuitous, a hand to your hip – maybe even further down, when you leave and go to his place, his taut hard skin that grazes on your supple waist to foreshadow the coming of more.   

You would like that wouldn’t you?  Easy touches, feelings you don’t need to think about.  Satisfying your desire with an almost nameless body who yearns for the same. 

Yet –

 For all his sheep stares with brown eyes so curious and obliviously sweet, they’re not the eyes you’re searching for. 

They lack the depths of green you’re used to, and these emotions within – they’re not right. 

Neither is his mouth, they’re not full enough, no mischievous smiles that come your way filled with secrets you both know. 

His laugh is pleasant.  His laugh also doesn’t make you feel anything on the inside.  It doesn’t make you yearn to laugh alongside.  Doesn’t make you want to kiss it away to leave him all breathy with something else. 

The touches you will get will be that of a stranger who explores you for the first time.  Nothing like what you crave which are for the touches from someone familiar that know that you tickle easy at your neck or that a new beauty mark appeared on your shoulder. 

Too bad that particular someone doesn’t know the secret of your heart. 

So –

You sit and have coffee and wait for this to end.  He drinks the cappuccino all wrong, downing the whole thing like a shot, grimacing at the bitterness he wasn’t used to.  You comfort while he complains, and keep your hands guarded to your sides, holding all your cards and revealing none. 

He invites you over to tea, even though you just had coffee and biscuits, to which you respectfully decline, leaving both of you in an awkward predicament as the date isn’t quite yet over, although it might as well be by how he pouts.  You leave no space, no crook or cranny on your body or heart, for any aforementioned displays of affection when you leave, even when he reaches over to grab your hand with his large eyes wide like a doe’s, an ace of hearts on the sleeve of his jacket – the last-ditch attempt to win your affections.  Unfortunately (or fortunately for you), this too doesn’t lead to any farewell hug or goodbye kiss(es). 

When you go back to your flat, you end up taking a hundred stairs up because the elevator is rightfully broken on the ground floor.  You reach home and lock the door to hide yourself from the world, or rather an alright-ish bloke (although abysmally no-mannered espresso drinker who isn’t as easy-going or as innocent as he seemed). 

It’s been only an hour since you left.  You feel drained like this was a whole day’s journey, emotionally so.  But amazing scrumptious smells waft from the kitchen.  And you know down inside before touch, smell, and sound, that he’s here. 

There’s a large cookbook out on the checkered kitchen counters, decorated in stains and the weatherings of making glorious meals of the past.  His brown brows furrowed as he’s glancing at whatever age-old recipe he’s trying to make.  There’s a knife in hand, a Yukon Gold potato with the skin peeled in the other. 

“You’re early,” he looks up, a nod as he looks you up and down before a small smile (which you know is a bit too forced).  “Date went well?” 

You give an undignified snort, rather unbecoming of the Malfoy you are really, but his ears aren’t as delicately waifish as yours.  “Let’s not talk about that,” you say as you drape your long coat on a chair. 

“What are you making?” You try to drop the previous subject. 

“Roasted potatoes,” he says, “Goes well with the pot roast in the oven.”

Sunday pot roast is your favorite meal.  He knows this from all the times you graciously stuffed yourself at school (using all the best manners befitting of course). 

He gives you a smile, all mischievous, full of the jokes you both know.  “Help me Scor?  These potatoes aren’t going to chop themselves.  Bloke’s gotta pitch in to get the best roasted bits yeah?” 

And so, you take a well-worn apron over your cashmere sweater, it smells of apples, of cinnamon, with a faint whiff of the cologne you gave him for his birthday last year.  It smells of Al. 

He puts a hand to your shoulder, a hand that is broad yet with fingers so elegant like that of a pianist’s, dotted with rough calluses on the bottom from years of casual Quidditch and caring for the Herbology plants in the greenhouse.  He’s warm, and the grip is so familiar being all the right kinds of strong and tender. 

“You good?” he asks, words left unsung about what happened this afternoon, or how he’s worried about it.  His breath is hot against your neck as he towers slightly over you.  You shudder slightly.   

“Brilliant,” you reassure him with a smile, sticking out your tongue.  He gives the laugh you love, and hands you the beat-up chopping board, the one you both bought when you first got this flat together.  Before you know it, you both settle into a routine, and you listen to him hum out the old Celestina Warbeck song. 

And you really are.  You’re home.  And he’s in your heart. 

And perhaps, perhaps you’re in his too. 

[briefololtragedy]

When a plan comes together

Part of Pakkun’s plan series

Pairing: Kakashi x Sakura

Summary: Pakkun watches Kakashi and Sakura through the stages of their relationship. He just loves when a plan comes together.

For Kakashi’s birthday

Also posted on AO3

Kakashi was pacing back and forth. Pakkun just watched as his owner gave himself a pep talk. 

“I can do this. I can do this. It’s just a simple question. She wouldn’t say no.” Kakashi continued to pace. Pakkun didn’t understand how cats watched something move back and forth all the time, he was getting nauseous. 

Kakashi and Sakura had been dating for 6 months now. At least that is how long Pakkun has known about it. It may be even more than that. Everyday Pakkun has now gone with Kakashi to the coffee shop. He watched them flirt with each other. He watched as Kakashi would pull her into a hug and kiss her after she gave him his order. The two never noticed all the women jealous of Sakura or the men glaring at Kakashi. The two existed in their own little world. 

Sakura was staying over more since the first night they were together. All of the others in the pack adored her. Pakkun tried not to get jealous when he would see Sakura scratch their heads or give them his special treats. 

Pakkun heard the door handle jingle and let out an excited yelp. He watched as Kakashi straightened and composed himself. 

“Oh hello to all of you too.” Pakkun couldn’t believe it as the others jumped all over Sakura the moment she entered. He watched as she brought a box over her head so it wouldn’t get destroyed. 

“Hello handsome.” Sakura gave Kakashi a peck on the cheek before she went into the kitchen. Pakkun melted when he saw Kakashi’s eyes warm, his whole body relaxing. 

“I brought some dessert. What would you like for dinner?” The two danced in the kitchen. Kakashi refused to let her help, but she would constantly try to help him. 

“Such a stubborn old man.” Sakura pouted on the barstool. 

“I’m your stubborn old man.” Kakashi stilled as he stirred the stir fry.  

“What would you say to moving in with me?” Kakashi just blurted it out no tact. Pakkun would facepalm if he could.

“Oh.” Sakura froze. Kakashi became deflated as she went silent. He was preparing for the worse. 

“I have thought about it, but…” Sakura looked down at the counters. Her heart was racing. She would love to move in with him, but part of her was old fashioned. 

“But I always imagined I would be at least engaged before I moved in with someone.” It was now Kakashi’s heart that was racing. 

“Oh.” Sakura found her oh thrown back at her. He was going to break up with her, she just knew it. Pakkun didn’t know what was going to happen. All his hard work was going up in flames. He wanted to weep. He wanted to cuddle up in his bed and munch on a special dog biscuit. 

Pakkun was brought out of his sorrows when Kakashi moved to stand in front of Sakura. He took her hands in his. 

“Well I was going to do this differently, but..” Kakashi reached into his pocket as he kneeled to the ground. 

“Sakura Haruno will you marry me?” 

“Yes! Yes!  A million times yes.” Kakashi went crashing to the ground as she tackled him. Pakkun was barking loudly and soon all the others joined in. 

“So you’ll move in with me.” Pakkun just watched as Sakura kissed Kakashi to shut him up. 

________________________

In a whirlwind Sakura had moved in. Kakashi’s bookshelf found all different kinds of cookbooks littering the shelves. His kitchen was packed with new gadgets. 

Pakkun just watched as they would sit on the sofa together and plan the wedding. When two loud blondes came over the first time Pakkun never thought his hearing would recover. He didn’t know what to make of having his measurements taken. It was one night when he was lounging on the sofa with his owners that he realized what they had in store for him.  

“Are you sure you are ok with this?” Sakura was curled into Kakashi’s side. Kakashi was playing with her hair. 

“If it wasn’t for him we probably never would have met. I think it is adorable you want him to stand as one of your groomsmen.” Pakkun couldn’t protest as Sakura hit that perfect spot behind his ear. 

__________________

It was a beautiful fall day. People Pakkun had never seen before were sitting in chairs outside. The leaves had started to turn orange, red, and yellow. Some had fallen from the trees already. He did see two familiar blonde mops of hair. The female version was wearing a flowing champagne colored gown. The male version was sitting in a chair eating ramen. How the hell did he get ramen? 

Pakkun was positioned to Kakashi’s left side, both of them were wearing dark gray suits with black accents. Pakkun could feel the nerves radiating off of Kakashi and he couldn’t help nudging his head against Kakashi’s leg. Soon the music started to play. One by one different woman Pakkun had seen over the last few months filtered to stand on the other side, each wearing the same flowing champagne gown. 

Then the music changed. Kakashi’s heart skipped a beat. 

Sakura came into view. All the nerves he was feeling before evaporated into thin air. His future was walking towards him. She forewent the vail. Instead she had a crown of flowers on her head. Her hair was in loose cascading waves. Her dress was a long sleeve lace dress that flared out at her hips. 

At that moment nothing else mattered. 

Sakura looked into those warm grey eyes and knew nothing would be the same after today. They were going to walk side by side, partners in life from here on out. In good times and in bad. 

“I do.” Never sounded so sweet to Pakkun in that moment. 

__________________

Pakkun watched as Sakura’s stomach slowly got bigger. He could sense something was different about her. All of them decided she needed to be protected at all times. Kakashi would laugh when he would come in the room and see them all surrounding her. Bull especially stayed as close as he could. 

They would dance together while making dinner. Swaying in each other's arms. Kakashi would place his hands on her expanding stomach and sing sweet nothings to the growing bump. 

__________________

The crying wouldn’t stop. There needed to be an off switch on this thing. Pakkun would watch as the two new parents navigate the task of having a baby. He didn’t understand what was so special about a grey haired green eyed little boy. He didn’t do much aside from crying and making the most awful smells. Pakkun at one point got too close to the diaper and his nose burned for days. 

They were so busy with the crying machine that Pakkun didn’t get his special treats. 

Pakkun laid in front of the crib and just watched his newest human. He wasn’t sure how he felt about him, but knew he would still protect him no matter what. 

______________

“Sakumo no! Don’t throw your food.” Sakura was at her wits end. Sakumo decided that it was more fun  to throw his food on the floor rather than eat it. Her homemade baby food meeting a grizzly end on the floor. Kakashi was busy making dinner for the two of them. He couldn’t help, but get a few pictures when Sakura wasn’t looking. 

Pakkun watched the scene in front of him, while licking up the delicious apple and pear puree. This kid wasn’t so bad after all. 

Sakura soon gave up and let Sakumo continue to launch his food into the air only for it to hit the dogs. Her spirits were lifted when a plate of food was placed in front of her. Kakashi sitting by her side. They leaned into each other. Kakashi stroked her back as he watched their son. 

“I’ll clean him up when he is done, so you can relax with a glass of wine.” Sakura perked up. 

“Have I told you lately how you are the most amazing husband and father in the world?” Kakashi couldn’t help, but stare in those emerald eyes. 

“Hmmm...I think you said something similar this morning.” Before she could protest he sealed her lips with his. 

Pakkun watched. His belly full of delicious food, like it should be. All was right with the world. He loved it when a plan really came together. 

[ineffablegame]

I imagine you'll get a few of these, but may I request Ineffable Husbands for either 1. a sweet kiss or 17. a love bite? Thank you!

Heads up, this gets a little naughty. ;)  Also published on my Ao3.

Taste

Crowley has never been one for eating.

Oh, he’s tried a number of times over the millennia, but no amount of effort can make him derive joy from the act.  He can’t quite tap into the endorphin rush Aziraphale so relishes, and the thought of a lump of mashed-up organic matter sitting in his belly, slowly chewed into pulp by acidic juices before moving down to the plumbing, as it were… well, it all makes him get a bit queasy.  Drinking is one thing, mostly made tolerable by alcohol, but eating is quite another.

No, Crowley is not a one for eating.  But he does love tasting.

“This is absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale murmurs, licking a dollop of tiramisu off his fork. Sitting on the other side of the table, chin propped on the heel of his hand, Crowley watches intently.  The angel cuts off another piece of the dessert and pops it into his mouth with an appreciative hum.  “Utterly divine.”

It’s obscene, really, the way Aziraphale eats.  The little sighs and moans, the pink flicker of his tongue, the rapture that toes sacrilegiously close to religious ecstasy.  It should be classified as public indecency.  The angel should be locked up.

Crowley can’t stop staring.

“Give it here, then,” he says, pleased when his voice emerges in a convincing charade of insouciance.

Aziraphale sets down his fork, eyebrows arched.  “Really?  I thought you didn’t care for… well, this sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” Crowley says. “But you seem to be having a grand old time with that tiramisu, so…”  He trails off, hand outstretched.  Aziraphale hesitates and he smirks.  “What? Scared about swapping a little saliva, angel?”

Aziraphale hands over the fork and nudges the plate across the table.  The tips of his ears have gone strawberry shortbread-pink.  “Of course not.”

Crowley laves his tongue over the tines.  He is glad for the concealment of his sunglasses, for as he licks up traces of dusky coffee and feather-froth mascarpone, he keeps his gaze fixed on Aziraphale. And when he tastes it at last – a trace of fresh apple and unsullied desert air, the angel’s taste, a six-thousand-year-old savor of Eden – his eyes slip shut.

-

It becomes something of a game, chasing Aziraphale’s taste.  Crowley tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do, now that Armageddon has been cancelled and Adam Young has decreed that Messing People About should be kept to a minimum.  It’s boredom, it’s Hellish mischief, it’s the latest sally in Crowley’s eternal battle against his Adversary.

Most of all, it’s a pity, because Crowley has learned enough self-awareness to see a list of denials when he’s the one writing it.  Fortunately, he also has just enough of a sense of self-preservation left to keep on denying.  Peter the Apostle could have learned a thing or two from Crowley.

He starts small. Crowley might prefer to terrify his houseplants into verdant beauty, but he does know gardening.  For a temptation to truly work, you must plant the seed, tend the soil.  With patience, care, and just the tiniest infernal nudge, you can reap a bountiful harvest.

“Funny, how humans worked that out,” Crowley remarks one day, as they sit in a posh little café in Mayfair.

Aziraphale licks a smudge of crème brûlée off his spoon and sets it down, cocking his head.  “What do you mean?”

Crowley waves a hand at the dish.  “Well, how, way back when, some brilliant bugger thought, ‘huh, what happens when I add heavy cream and sugar and egg yolks together and torch the top?’  It’s clever, that’s all.”

Aziraphale considers the cracked crust of his dessert.  “Well. I suppose I never considered it.”

Crowley says nothing more on the subject, but he doesn’t need to.  He can see the light of curiosity burning in the angel’s gaze long after they leave the café.  Seed planted.

Later, giddy with his own sense of spontaneity, Aziraphale invites Crowley to the little flat above the bookshop.  They walk into the kitchenette, Aziraphale bubbling with excitement, Crowley feigning confusion.  The angel gestures to the ingredient-laden table with a flourish.

“What’s all this?” Crowley asks, perfectly aware of what it is.

“Ingredients!” Aziraphale exclaims.  “We’re going to try baking!”

Crowley affects a long-suffering groan.  “This is pointless.  We can just miracle biscuits onto your plate, and besides, I don’t even like—”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, “but this is more fun!”

It’s a simple recipe for chocolate biscuits.  Well, it’s simple in theory, at least.  Aziraphale and Crowley have never bothered to learn how to bake, not with the power of Heaven and Hell at their fingertips.  They soon discover the trials of eggshell in the batter, whisking too quickly, and goodness, Crowley, are you certain you greased the pan?  The first batch looks more like charred lumps than biscuits, exiting the oven in a putrid cloud of smoke, but Aziraphale will not be deterred. They start a second batch with infinite care.  Crowley is so preoccupied learning how to break an egg without getting shell shards in the bowl that he almost misses Aziraphale raising the spatula to his lips for a languorous lick.

Almost.  But not quite.

“These will be better,” Aziraphale says, certain in a way that means the biscuits will be delicious even if they mucked up every direction in the cookbook.  As he turns to put the pan in the oven, Crowley snatches up the spatula, still smeared with chocolate batter, and steals a taste.

And there it is again – hidden beneath sugar, butter, flour, chocolate – the faintest trace of apple and garden air.  His eyes close and a sigh gusts out of his chest.

“Crowley?  What on Earth are you doing?”

Crowley startles, the spatula slipping from his fingers.  The utensil tumbles to the floor in a spatter of chocolate.  “Ngk—nothing.”

Aziraphale slants him a dubious look.  “Were you tasting the batter?”

“Maybe,” Crowley mumbles.

The angel’s lips stretch in a grin.  “You’re becoming fonder of food than you let on, dear boy.  Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.”

“Shut it,” Crowley grumbles, stooping to pick up the spatula.

When the biscuits are done, Aziraphale takes a bite and declares them to be scrumptious.  Crowley wouldn’t know.  Compared to the taste of angel, they are dirt in his mouth.

-

It becomes a ritual for them, the baking.  Aziraphale claims it calms him after a long day at the shop, that he likes making things with his hands.  They actually become not-rubbish at it, churning out batch after batch of increasingly complex biscuits before graduating to other sweets. Bars follow the biscuits, and are in turn trailed by tarts and pies and cakes.  Despite Aziraphale’s insistence on doing things the proper way, miracles join the mix as often as not, a spice no kitchen in the world could replicate.

Crowley becomes adept at stealing tastes of Aziraphale.  He hoards them, pilfering used spatulas, bowls, and stray spoons.

Time passes.  When you are immortal, time does that – slips through your fingers like flour through a sifter, each dust-fine speck a day, a week, a month.  And then, years later, Aziraphale invites Crowley over to work on a lemon curd cake.

“Curd’s almost done chilling,” Aziraphale says.  “How’s the batter coming along, my dear?”

“Nearly there,” Crowley says, preoccupied with folding in the whites.  “Oven up to temperature?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He snaps his fingers and the oven chimes in agreement, a whoosh of hot air filling its belly.

Crowley lifts a skeptical eyebrow.  “That’s cheating, angel.”

“Oh, hush.  I’m only speeding the process along.”  As Crowley slides the pans into the oven, Aziraphale opens the refrigerator and lifts out the dish of chilled curd.  Crowley turns to watch, frozen, as the angel dips a finger in and lifts a yellow dollop to his lips.  Pink lips, pink tongue.  A divine sigh.  “Perfect.”

“Stop that,” Crowley says, voice thin in his ears.  “You’ll eat it all and we won’t have any for the cake.”

“Oh, tosh,” Aziraphale says. He dips his spit-slick finger into the curd, and Crowley should be mortified, he should be disgusted – but instead he’s striding forward, body leagues ahead of his mind.  His hand shoots out to close around the angel’s wrist.  Aziraphale makes a noise of protest.  And falls silent.

Crowley lurches back, the tang of lemon curd and angel skin leaping on his tongue.  Aziraphale is staring at him with wide eyes.  “Angel, I’m, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, already reaching for him.  “Oh, Crowley.”

-

Aziraphale is still trembling, still panting like he truly needs his lungs when Crowley lifts his head. He crawls across the angel’s naked body, smearing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the way – the crease of his thigh, the mound of his belly, the center of his chest, the column of his neck.  Aziraphale shivers out a laugh at the brush of Crowley’s tongue on his skin.  “Stop—stop that, you rogue.”

“Nah,” Crowley murmurs, rasping his teeth to redden the skin, memorizing the savor of his sweat. “Never.  Love how you taste.”

Aziraphale’s fingers thread through his hair, soothing and inciting at once.  “Come here, then.  Let me taste myself on you.”

Crowley shudders and tilts his head up for a kiss.  He has never been one for eating, but this is a hunger he will never sate.

[indigosandviolets]

Because I'm hungry... Cooking headcanons for Band of Brothers? Like can they cook and what do they like to cook, what do they mess up and how?

oh my god, this sounds hilarious!

Winters: Our good ol’ Major Winters doesn’t really cook a lot, but he does like to bake here and there (his apple pie is to DIE for). However, he has tried his hand at cooking cooking, and ended up burning the shit out of some hash browns and eggs.

Nixon: Nixon is actually really good at cooking. He’s great at making fajitas, but this boy cannot make rice for the life of him. He either puts in too much water or not enough. He just can’t get it right.

Welsh: Welsh makes breakfast in bed for kitty all the time. His specialty? Belgian Waffles. He even makes a blueberry sauce to go on top. This man loves his wife to death, and if those waffles were anything less than perfect he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Lipton: Lip is great at cooking. If it’s in a Martha Stewart cookbook, he can make it. However, baking? He can’t do it. Paul Hollywood would berate the hell of out of his bakes if he was on GBBO.

Spiers: Ronald Spiers does not cook. He gets too aggressive when something doesn’t go exactly right. However, he can make pretty good cocktails.

Randleman: You better believe this southern boy can cook AND bake. He uses all the passed down recipes and eyeballs almost everything and it always turns out amazing. The thing he does best though? Lemon bars. No one can ever get enough of them.

Malarkey: You remember how Malarkey was cooking in the truck at the end of Day of Days? Well, he likes to think he can cook. He’s not great, but it’s not terrible. He’s improved a lot, but he wouldn’t always be someone’s first choice for dinner. (he prefers takeout anyway). His favorite thing to cook is fried cabbage (it’s the Irish in him.)

Guarnere: Guarnere is a mean spaghetti cooker. That’s why he’s so pissed during Currahee. He would’ve killed to be able to actually make the men some proper Italian food. When he’s cooking alone, he’ll actually talk like he’s on a cooking show and it’s the funniest thing to ever witness.

Roe: Doc is good at cooking, but he sometimes overthinks a recipe. There is one tried and true thing for him to bake and those are his grandmother’s biscuits. He also makes jams from time to time to go on them. They’re simple, but they’re good.

Luz: Luz is great at breakfast foods. Toast, omelets, pancakes, you name it. When it gets passed that, though? He cannot do anything for the life of him. He can barely make a box of Mac ‘n’ Cheese.

Toye: Toye doesn’t really have the patience to cook. He wishes he did, but he just doesn’t. If it’s quick, he’ll cook it, but if it takes longer than 30 minutes he starts to get frustrated. He does make pretty good coffee though.

Liebgott: Liebgott will yell at inanimate objects while he cooks (i.e. for the love of shit, will you please stop poppin’ in my fuckin’ face?) but he’s really good at it. Every time anyone comes over, they always ask for latkes (it’s his specialty).

Perconte: Perconte can make some pretty good ramen. That’s about it.

Martin: Martin is a very intense cook. He does not speak until after he’s finished. The best thing he can cook is shrimp scampi, and you better believe he puts every last ounce of work into it (or, if Luz is over, he gets Luz to do all the mundane work).

Babe: Babe tries! He tries so hard! He’ll stick the tip of his tongue out while he’s cooking because he’s so focused on getting everything right. He can make some pretty good scrambled eggs and toast, but if you give that boy a recipe with more than six steps? He starts to freak out a bit.

Webster: Webster cooks with ease (probably because he can understand a recipe in like two seconds) and he often diviates and creates his own thing based on the recipe. He loves making German and Polish recipes, those are some of his favorites.

[star-doll-universe]

Michelle Goes to Candy Island (Part 1)

A little something I wrote for @one-piece-dumpster-fire in which her self insert gets to meet some of my WCI OCs. I hope you guys enjoy my nonsense and sheesh I was gonna make this all one thing but now there’s gonna be at least two parts ‘cause this shit got loooong *hides*

The sun was just beginning to poke its head above the chocolate covered hills of Biscuit Island as Michelle made her way through the shadowed halls of the Minister’s Manor. The early morning rays cast little more than a pale glow along the floor as they seeped between the heavy velvet curtains. The large home of Charlotte Cracker was eerily still and silent, not a single person seemed to be awake, which is why Michelle had been rather surprised to wake up and find the spot beside her in bed to be noticeably vacant.

She’d quickly gotten up and dressed for the day, deciding sleep would most likely escape her if her fiancé wasn’t lying next to her. It really was very odd for him to be up this early, and Michelle quickly deduced that it had been either Minister of Biscuit duties, Sweet Commander duties or a mixture of both that had dragged him from their bed this early in the morning. Therefore, she decided to pay him a visit since he was probably not in the best of moods if work really had forced him to wake up before even the Homies had begun singing their morning song. This is why Michelle was currently making her way to his office, after stopping in the kitchen to grab some quick breakfast, munching on a biscuit covered in grape jelly as she went.

Despite the darkness of the mansion’s halls, she found her way to Cracker’s office with practiced ease. Michelle scarcely knocked before pushing on the heavy door and slipping inside; her future husband never seemed to mind her dropping in on him like this. She found Charlotte Cracker crouched over his desk with a mountain of paperwork spread out before him and a cup of lukewarm coffee clenched in his fist. His signature broad smile was currently missing and was replaced by a heavy scowl of concentration as he perused what seemed like miles of important documents.

“Good morning.” Michelle stifled a yawn as she made her way over to his desk.

Cracker glanced up at she approached him.

“Sugar Cube, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was up with the sun,” Michelle lied, moving around the side of the desk so she could stand beside her fiancé, scarcely reaching his bicep as she stood on tip toe to glance at his mess of paperwork. “What are you working on?”

Cracker snorted. “What aren’t I working on?!” He exclaimed with a rueful smile as he turned towards Michelle, reaching out after a moment to stroke the side of her face. “Thank you for visiting me, my dear. I appreciate it.” He then used his other hand to down the rest of his coffee before standing up from his desk.

“Where are you going?” Michelle asked as he brushed past her.

“I have some business to attend to on the southern part of the island,” Cracker explained as he threw his cape over his shoulders. “I’ll be a while, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright.” Michelle forced a smile. “I’ll manage without you.”

Cracker chuckled. “I’m happy you understand, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” Michelle then moved over to where Cracker’s sword Pretzel was leaning against the wall and picked it up.

“Thank you,” Cracker took his blade from her and attached it to his hip. “I’ll try to be back by tonight.”

“Alright,” Michelle then leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe. I’ll see you later.”

Cracker’s face was a little pink as he nodded, finally flashing her one of his signature cocky grins. “Of course, love. I’m always careful.” With this slightly callous response, he turned to go, but paused in the doorway. “By the way, one of my sisters is going to be stopping by today.”

Michelle raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Which one?”

“You haven’t met her yet. Her name is Spice. She’s a Sweet Commander like me.”

“Oh!” Michelle vaguely recalled her being mentioned before. “What’s her reason for visiting?”

“She said something about taking you to a party or something.” Cracker seemed to be struggling to remember the details; he was also probably distracted by his pressing Minister duties. “I’m sure she’ll explain when she gets here. Anyways, keep an eye out for her, and I’ll be back before you can say “souffles make terrible earmuffs”.

Michelle giggled at this silly remark as her fiancé gave one last little wave before sweeping out the door, his long magenta cape billowing behind him as he went. Soon enough, he was gone, and his future wife was forced to find some means of preoccupying herself before Cracker’s aforementioned sister arrived with her mysterious objective.

 ~~~~~~~~

Michelle eventually found herself in the manor’s library, which was always a slightly overwhelming experience. The second she walked into the room, every book Homie on the shelf would start clamoring all at once: “Read me!” “No! Read me!” “Read me first!” She would never understand how the old sofa slept through all of it.

Merely looking for a means of entertainment for the time being, Michelle wasn’t really all that picky on what to read. Eventually, she selected a mauve cookbook entitled “1,001 Uses for Margarine” and settled back against the cushions while the furniture snored loudly.

She had just made it to use #27 when a sharp knock on the door made her jump slightly. Michelle glanced up at the door, which looked as surprised as she was.

“Um…Come in?” Michelle offered, but the door did not open. She quickly set the book aside and was just about to get up and open it herself when, out of nowhere, a face suddenly appeared in the center of the door.

“BOO!” the face exclaimed, and Michelle shrieked, throwing her arms over her head and falling off the sofa, which finally woke up with a snort.

The face giggled rather jovially: a wide mouth and big brown eyes were alight with glee beneath short shaggy orange hair. As Michelle watched, astonished, the face was soon accompanied by a neck and then shoulders and then a torso and finally a pair of legs. Next thing she knew, a whole human was floating in the middle of the library. The figure was a young girl to be precise, around Michelle’s age. She had the brightest, most orange hair Michelle had ever seen; it looked like her face was wreathed in fire. It was also full of little hairclips in the shape of candy corn which matched the earrings, rings and necklaces that dotted all around her white round face accented by rosy cheeks and splash of tanned freckles. Her puffy orange sweater dwarfed most of her form but Michelle could still make out a rather curvy figure with a full chest and short, thick legs, the latter of which were clothed in white and yellow striped socks with thick black Mary Jane shoes on her feet. The girl grinned down at the startled Michelle on the floor, hovering near the ceiling like a chandelier, with a smile almost as wide as Cracker’s

“Hiya Michelle!”

The other woman blinked at the sound of her name, the initial shock slowly starting to fade, and she managed to clamber back to her feet. “H-Hello…Are you Spice, by any chance?”

“Yep!” Spice nodded, swooping down to suddenly alight on the ground right in front of Michelle. “I’m Charlotte Spice! Minister of Carnauba, Sweet Commander and twenty-second daughter of Big Mom, Emperor of the Sea.” She suddenly reached out and clasped Michelle’s hands. “It’s so good to finally make your acquaintance, Michelle. Cracker’s told me a lot about you.”

Michelle was still reeling, but her face went a little red from that last remark. “R-Really?”

“You bet! He doesn’t shut up about you, always gushing about how sweet and lovely you are. It’s honestly going to give me diabetes.” Spice laughed at her own joke before suddenly letting go of Michelle’s hands and jumping back into the air. “Now come on! We gotta get a move on or we’re going to be late.”

“Late?” Michelle stammered before her jaw hit the floor as she watched Spice zip back over to the door and phase THROUGH THE WALL without even slowing down. “W-Wait!” she quickly raced after her, thrusting open the door to see Spice was already halfway down the hall.

“Come on, Michelle! You gotta keep up!”

“I-I can’t, really,” Michelle called back, gripping her bad hip as she spoke. “I can’t run very well.”

“Hmm? Oh fudgsicles! That’s right, your hip is bad. Hold on!” Spice flew back over and then picked Michelle up by the waist before she had a chance to argue.

“Whoa!”

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry!”

“W-Where exactly are you taking me?” Michelle asked, clinging to the other girl rather tightly as they flew through the halls.

“I’m taking you to Candy Island! Perospero’s wife is having a little get together, and you were invited!”

“Me?”

“Of course! She and her sisters wanted to meet you before the wedding. After all, you’re going to be family now, right?”

“Oh yeah. Right.” Michelle was a little flattered at the gesture.

Spice suddenly stopped midair, jolting the other woman more than a little and causing her to grab an even bigger fistful of her giant orange sweater. “By the way, do you have a winter coat?”

Michelle blinked in confusion. “I mean yes, but isn’t Candy Island a Summer Island?”

“I mean yeah but…” Spice paused. “It’s a bit hard to explain, but trust me, you’ll want one. Now where is your room?”

“It’s on the top floor by the-WAIT CAN’T WE WALK?” Michelle shrieked as Spice took off again, dragging her through the air before she’d even finished her sentence.

 ~~~~~~~

Now more than a little frazzled but winter coat firmly in hand, Michelle trooped along after Spice as she skipped and weaved her way through the streets of Biscuit Island, her feet seemingly not touching the ground for more than a few seconds. Michelle had insisted they walk to the harbor, and she was grateful that Spice had agreed to slow down a little and let the other girl get her bearings (and hopefully fix her awfully windblown hair that she was currently combing her fingers through). Despite her annoyance at zipping around the Biscuit Manor like an overly caffeinated hummingbird, Michelle couldn’t help but let her eyes continuously wander to Spice’s feet hovering a good few inches off the ground.

“Hey Spice, can I ask you something?”

“Hmm? Sure. What is it, Michelle?” the other woman glanced back at her, her orange hair looked even brighter in the morning sunlight.

“Your powers are from a Devil Fruit, right?’

At her question, Spice’s large enthusiastic smile quickly returned. “Yep! The Human-Human Fruit, Model: Poltergeist, to be exact.”

“Poltergeist?!” Michelle was a little shocked. She couldn’t help but remember those creepy stories her father used to tell her and her little brother while they huddled together on the bed in his cabin, trembling with frightened delight. “As in a ghost?”

“Of course! One of those creepy apparitions that makes things go bump in the night!” Spice wiggled her fingers teasingly. “I’ll show you my Devil Fruit’s full form sometime if you ever wanna see something really terrifying.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Michelle replied.

By that point, the two young women had reached the docks at the very edge of Biscuit Island.

“And here she is!” Spice announced, flying a little higher into the air as she spread her arms wide. “Isn’t she scrumptious?!”

Michelle looked on at a cute little sailboat that was resting at the end of the dock. It was painted bright orange with pitch black sails and looked almost as though it had been carved out of a squash or, dare she say, a pumpkin. This was further emphasized by the figurehead Homie which was in fact a Jack O’ Lantern that had an almost menacing grin. It cackled at seemingly everything as golden flames bloomed from its eyes and mouth.

“Oh wow!” Michelle was indeed impressed, if a little creeped out.

“She’s called the Peter Midnight, and she’s all mine!” Spice declared proudly.

Michelle was about to tell her that the ship was indeed quite cool, but words escaped her almost immediately when a second Spice suddenly appeared standing on the edge of the ship’s railing, grinning down at her.

“Welcome aboard, Michelle! We’ll be casting off soon!”

Michelle blinked in astonishment, her eyes quickly flipping between the first Spice she’d been talking to already, who was still floating in the air above the boat, and the second spice standing on the dock.

“Captain Spice!” the first Spice called to her double as she landed beside her, proving there were indeed two and they were seemingly identical. “Is the ship in tip top shape?”

“Sure thing, Commander Spice. We’re ready when you are!”

Michelle couldn’t take much more of this. “Excuse me, WHAT?!”

Both Spices looked her way and quickly broke into identical laughter. “Don’t worry, Michelle, it’s just a soul projection.” The first Spice casually explained, waving her hand through the second version of her who quickly faded in and out of focus slightly like a mirage. “It’s another side effect of my Devil Fruit. Pretty cool, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Michelle grumbled from under her breath.

“Ready on your command, Captain Spice!” A third Spice called from the rigging of the sails.

“All set on our end as well, Commander Spice!” called a fourth from the helm.

“I can see gummy dolphins!” yelled a fifth from the crow’s nest. This one was holding a telescope.

The first Spice, the real one Michelle supposed, clapped her hands. “Ok everyone! Enough fooling around! Let’s get a move on!”

With that, all of the soul projection Spices got to work casting off the ship from the docks of Biscuit Port.

After another moment to get her bearings, Michelle was helped aboard by another soul projection while the figurehead continued to cackle gleefully.

“Hard to port, Helmswoman Spice! Let’s set out for Candy Island!” the first Spice called out, pointing in the direction she wanted the ship to go. At her command, the Spice at the helm turned the wheel and the ship cut a neat path through the waves and out into the open sea that surrounded the Tottoland. Archipelago.

Michelle gripped the side of the ship, feeling the familiar sensation of the ocean air washing over her entire body. She closed her eyes, soaking in the nostalgic feeling as the cool breeze whipped through her hair.

“Hey Michelle!” She opened her eyes to see the real Spice hovering towards the bow of the ship, waving to her frantically. “Watch this! It’s really going to knock your socks off.”

“Uh…Ok!” Michelle called back.

Spice grinned at her. “Hold on tight.”

The other woman didn’t need to be told twice, her grip on the edge of the ship tightening almost immediately.

Spice then floated down to land on the Jack O’ Lantern figurehead, placing her hands palms down on the top. Michelle watched, almost transfixed, as she closed her eyes in a moment of concentration. A second later, Spice’s eyes snapped open, and a shiver went down Michelle’s spine as she saw that they were nearly completely blacked out save her irises which were now a brilliant yellow. A kind of shadow seemed to pass around the Peter Midnight and all of the Spice soul projections gained the same creepy eyes as the original. A curious golden light suddenly appeared on Spice’s hands and seeped into the figurehead of her ship. It sent a ripple effect throughout the entire boat like when a person skips a stone on water. In an instant, the ship gave a great lurch and suddenly shot out of the harbor of Biscuit Island at a ridiculously dizzying speed.

Michelle let out a shout of surprise as she clung to the side of the ship which was now bouncing almost on top of the waves, cruising through the melon juice water with the ease of a warm knife through butter. Its speed was impressive to say the least, at this rate, they would reach Candy Island in less than an hour!

“You good?!” Michelle glanced up to see Spice had left the figurehead and was hovering directly above her, shouting over the sound of her boat cutting through the tumultuous sea of the New World.

“Yeah!” Michelle called back. “How did you do that?”

“This boat is powered by my soul,” Spice explained, easily sitting on the edge of the ship beside Michelle as if her boat’s sudden increase in speed hardly affected her. “That’s how it’s able to go so fast!”

“So, the ship is a Homie?!” Michelle asked.

Spice nodded. “In a way, yeah. That’s one of the reasons my mother made me a Sweet Commander. Our powers are remarkably similar to one another.”

Michelle nodded. That made sense. “What’s your bounty by the way?” she called over the wind. She knew all of the Sweet Commanders had high bounties. Cracker was rather proud of how big his was.

“I’m hovering around a billion last time I checked.” Spice replied, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Although I’m not sure. I know that it’s higher than Smoothie’s but not as big as Katakuri’s. It’s been a while since I’ve left Totto Land though.”

Michelle’s eyes were huge. “Your bounty is really that big?!”

Spice shrugged. “Compared to some other people’s, it’s pretty standard.”

“Yeah but-” Michelle paused, thinking of something. “Why is your bounty so high if you say you don’t leave Totto Land much?”

Spice sighed. “I used to leave more often when I was younger, go on raids and the like. My mother trained me personally; she was always impressed with my Devil Fruit powers, so I got very strong, very young.”

Michelle nodded. That would explain why she was a Sweet Commander even though she was noticeably younger than the others.

“But things are different these days. Mama’s cravings happen a lot more frequently than they used to. They’re a lot more…violent, more unpredictable. I have to stay on Whole Cake Island and manage things…as much as I can.”

As Michelle looked on, she saw something like a shadow pass over Spice’s normally bright face, like the ghost of something she’d rather not speak about. The other woman was curious about it but knew better than to ask. Regardless, as soon as those darker thoughts crossed Spice’s mind, they vanished once more, and she was back to her usual cheerful self.

“Anyways! I’m excited for you to meet everyone. Today is going to be so fun!”

Michelle agreed, nodding eagerly. “And I’m grateful to Perospero’s wife for inviting me.”

“Her name is Winter by the way,” Spice added. “And her sisters are Crystal and North.”

Michelle nodded, scrunching her nose as she tried to remember.

Spice laughed at the face she made. “Get used to it. There’s a lot of names you’ll need to keep track of in this family.”

The other woman gave her a slightly overwhelmed smile. “You’ve got that right.”

“I guess I should also mention that they’re members of the Farfallen race, by the way,” Spice added. “I don’t know if you’ve ever encountered those people before.”

Michelle arched an eyebrow. “Really? And I have before, once or twice.”

“One more thing,” Spice’s expression suddenly got serious again, which made Michelle pay attention. “When you meet Winter, just keep in mind. It’s not you. Okay?”

“Um…What exactly do you mean?”

“Just…” Spice grimaced. “It’s difficult to explain. Just keep that mind, alright? It’s not anything you did.”

“Okay…?” Michelle trailed off, her gaze wandering out to the sea that was frantically zipping by them on all sides, no longer certain if she should be worried or not.

To Be Continued...

[recipesformygirls]

Chocolate chip coconut scones, yummy. Ironically I told myself I was going to stop baking for a while because I took a webinar this week about sugar and I know I should cut back. These actually have very little sugar in them, but the butter isn’t so great either. Oh well, I made them and I’m certainly going to eat them. I made the scone recipe that I posted a while ago from Smitten Kitchen, but instead of cinnamon sugar I added chocolate chips and unsweetened coconut to the batter. Then I used a biscuit cutter instead of cutting them in triangles. I have to say they are delicious, not at all dry. I love a scone with tea or coffee anytime of day.

Edited 1/3/2022

I guess I never posted my cinnamon scones as I can’t find them so here’s the link to making them. Made them again today, they’re so flaky and good.

[millenniumfae]

Mass Effect: Andromeda Companion Headcanons

Liam Kosta

He’s canonically a big fan of 20/21st century culture (aka, OUR culture). That’s not being retro, that’s the equivalent of being a Victorian era buff. Very geeky, but he’s not alone - he’s attended ‘21st century’ conventions, subscribed to youtubers who specialize in exploring the 20th century, been to reenactments, and has more than a few period dramas in his vid collection.

His favorite 20/21st century things? Old cars, weird recipes, and the movie Train To Busan.

And if there’s still anime in the year 2185, he’s a huge fan of that too. Doesn’t stick with a particular drama, he loves many of the more popular ones. Doodles characters in an anime style, and he’s not particularly good - but he wants to be better.

He was perfect for the role of being a crisis response specialist. His teammates thought he was great at calming the injured down, ensuring positivity in stressful situations, and producing results. Literally employee of the year.

And that’s one of the reasons why he fucks up a bit when in Andromeda - its not a high crisis situation like a hostage holdup or a terrorist bombing, its a slow but terrifying pressure on them all. Not what he’s used to, or what he thrives under. Take him on Vetra’s loyalty mission, you see a glimpse of the crisis expert he used to be.

He’s actually not that great in communicating with aliens. It takes a special skill to understand radically different cultures, and Liam spent most of his years surrounded by other humans. Hence his weird way of doing it with Jaal, and accidentally pushing Turian/Krogan buttons

Cora Harper

During the game’s duration, there’s only flat coffee available, but the minute someone’s offers blended venti-sized caramel macchiatos, Cora is first in line.

She’s medicated for depression, and it definitely helps her. Back during her training on Thessia, she had a lot of emotional problems stemming from her life as an especially powerful biotic. She found one pill that works, and sticks with that.

I don’t like how the Mass Effect franchise handles the Asari, so I’m changing it; Cora never had a relationship with an Asari, but its not because she’s straight - Asari aren’t at default women. Some are, but most don’t have genders. Just because they ‘look like women’ doesn’t mean Cora, a straight woman, wouldn’t be attracted to one. It’s just a coincidence. 

I mean, it’s 2185, humans have had contact with several alien cultures for decades. The vast majority of people understand gender and sexuality in a much less limited way than we do nowadays.

Used to have a pretty popular Instagram, or at least the Mass Effect universe equivalent of one. Sometimes, it’s pictures of her hair and makeup, sometimes it’s her working out, sometimes its scenery and landmarks. On occasion, it’s her at a crazy bar and about to down some weird novelty cocktail.

Pelessaria "Peebee" B’Sayle

Her age is the human equivalent of being 24, since she’s near Liara’s age and Liara was apparently barely an adult. She’s got a doctorate, and several masters. Not human ones, but not Asari ones, either. Asari doctorates probably take 100 years, masters half that long. Peebee’s studied all across the galaxy, because her dislike of staying in one place has always been her hangup. 

She’s telling the truth when she tells Drack that her father was an Elcor. Drack does that to people - brings the truth out of them. Peebee doesn’t admit it, but she felt like Drack didn’t deserve some bullshit lie. 

And her Elcor father didn’t raise her, because her mother was one of those Asari who didn’t want a partner but wanted offspring. That’s rare amongst humans, but common with Asari. Her mother said to her father, ‘I want a child, not a husband.’

And her mother died 70 years before Peebee would jump onto the Andromeda Initiative from age-related complications. Her older sister, on the other hand, was left behind. But since she was already much older than Peebee, she’s probably dead and gone too. Peebee left her only remaining family with more than one tears shed, but they were never particularly close. 

Kalinda knew how young Peebee was, and that’s why she decided to use her. She was Peebee’s first actual relationship, started right after Peebee left her sister for dead and about to leave home forever. Kalinda knew what she was doing.

Nakmor Drack

Drack’s understanding and gentle nature isn’t atypical of the Krogan. In the original trilogy, we could usually only talk to Krogan during battle situations, unlike Ryder’s chances to be diplomatic. Sure, the Nakmor clan is particularly civil since they’re the ones to join the Initiative in becoming immigrants to another galaxy, but there’s more than one gruff yet charismatic grandpa out there.

It’s canon that he likes cooking, and yes, he’s good at it. He specializes in roast meats, which is not easy, but he also bakes pastries, delicious soups and stews, grain dishes and other noms. Some of those recipes are very old Krogan ones, but many are from other cultures and other aliens. He got them from cookbooks, which he reads in his spare time.

Such as Hanar shellfish cocktails, Asari butter biscuits, Drell cheese dips, human sauced pasta, Turian marinated chops, Elcor flatbread, etc. Except Salarian cuisine. He doesn’t want to ‘benefit’ from them anymore than the Krogan had to. But Salarian pillbug skewers are pretty tasty.

And like many grandpas, he’s kinda slow to adapt to new technology. ‘New’ to him meant Omni-tools at one point, universal translators at another, and etc. As the centuries go by, Drack’s gotta get used to some other new smartphone-equivalent technology. He’s not the best at it, but long ago he learned not to be stubborn and make an effort.

Vetra Nyx

Garrus in the original trilogy made a big deal out of being an atypical Turian, but Vetra and her sister even more so. That’s because Garrus grew up in Palavan to a very traditional family, while Vetra and Sid spent their lives bouncing from place to place. As she said, they’re probably not part of Turian society anymore. No rank, no caste. If Vetra ever wanted to rejoin the Turian census, she’d have a lot of trouble. That is, if she did it completely by the book.

So Vetra is so much more flexible and casual compared to the Turians of the original trilogy. You see it in her jokes, her body language, but also when she gets mad; Turian culture has people like Kandros reign in their volume and temper when they get frustrated, but Vetra will snap back.

Humans wouldn’t know this, but Vetra’s actually not much of a looker in Turian culture. Her mandibles are thin, her eyes too large, and her waist too short. She wears the Turian equivalent of makeup, but its not much. She looks like what we’d think of a librarian nerd would be. But that matters little to her; Vetra’s charismatic and highly intelligent, winning crowds (and sometimes hearts) all across the board.

And speaking of librarian nerds, Vetra’s visor is for her poor vision, too. She’d been wearing corrective vision technology since she was a kid, and it’s inherited from her mother. Sid, meanwhile, lucked out on the vision compartment, never needing a visor. 

The age gap between Sid and Vetra is around 14 years, and they have different mothers. 

And Vetra isn’t a horrible cook (Sid is grateful), she just doesn’t know how to make human steak. Turian meat needs to be cooked much longer than Earth cow, so she overshot it and doesn’t realize why. If Ryder chooses to romance her, Vetra actually makes an effort to learn about human cooking and does much better at it.

Jaal Ama Darav

Jaal’s poetic vocabulary is typical of those native to Havarl, which is where he (and his accent) are from. And he intentionally harbors it, too, because his family is famous and rooted in Angaran royalty. As an insecure famous soldier figure, he unconsciously makes an effort to appear as affluent as he can be.

We only see two models of a Rofjinn amongst the Angara; Jaal’s, and the smaller ones like Efra has. But there’s many styles of Rofjinn out there, Jaal’s actually being more ornate, with a patterned fabric that has a sheen. It was gifted by his mother, who makes them as per tradition to children that she believes are destined to live a troubled or eventful life. The Rofjinn is a reminder than they have their mother’s love and protection.

And Jaal’s Rofjinn is especially ornate particularly because Jaal’s actually quite camp. Not because of his love for lotions and perfumes, that’s typical amongst his people. We don’t get to see it, but Jaal loves fashion, aesthetics, and accessories that border on tacky. He rarely gets an opportunity to explore it as a soldier, but in his spare time, his crafts are wildly dotted with gold and pink acrylic flowers, holochrome pearls, and shining with glitter. And when his mother made his Rofjinn, she decided to make it a bit more Extra just for him. He was thrilled.

Jaal’s huge compared to us, and indeed he’s stocky amongst the Angara. But his attractiveness isn’t because of that, it’s because of his particularly theatrical and poetic nature. Angara are naturally expressive, but some are expressive in a gruff way, others in a dramatic way. Jaal is one of those Angara that embrace the world like a Broadway stage.