#Making Almond Milk from Scratch

[currymuttonpizza]

headcanon is that roderich is very bootstraps/hipster about making almond milk from scratch and he hates the boxed stuff

this is for me a jewish!roderich headcanon for non dairy options to pair with meat but it works for catholic!roderich too (and tbh any old old catholic nation) because like back when lent meant absolutely no animal product whatsoever for the whole 40 days, people were using almond milk!!! like this feels like such a modern thing to assign to him but it is not new at all and was all over the place in the middle ages in lent.

anyway that's how he makes horseradish cream for his boiled beef. to me. what with the advent of the food processor he cannot understand why you would buy a carton of almond milk, it tastes like the carton it came in. back in his day it was mortar and pestle or food mill blah blah blah

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT TWO: STITCH PATTERNS

Previous—Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Stalking and obsessive behavior (escalating), Gaslighting / psychological manipulation, Romantic horror / coercive intimacy, Graphic body preservation imagery, Complicity in violence / moral decay, Mentions of trauma-induced dissociation, Sexual tension tied to power / pathology (implied), Unsettling past medical experimentation (referenced), Canon is a sandbox.

It started small. Purposeful, but deniable. The kind of intrusions that, if she dared to mention them, would make her sound paranoid. Unstable. Delicate.

And Dr. Y/N Morrissey was none of those things.

At first, it was a coincidence.

She’d run into Rudy at the courthouse parking structure two mornings in a row, him smiling like he just happened to be leaving as she arrived, iced coffee in hand. Then again at the waterfront—she walked that route every other Thursday after reviewing blood pattern reports at precinct storage. It cleared her mind. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

He’d waved from a park bench.

“Funny how often we cross paths,” he’d said, as if the universe liked to play matchmaker.

But the familiarity began to sink its teeth in deeper. He started showing up with a second coffee, already ordered to her taste. He knew she didn’t like sugar. He knew she took it with almond milk. That she drank half and then let the rest go cold.

“I’m observant,” he’d said once with that soft, sunny charm. “Occupational hazard.”

She hadn’t told him her favorite brand of soap. But one night, walking into her apartment, she smelled it—lavender and vetiver, subtle and sharp—and paused by the door.

No one had broken in.

Nothing was taken.

But the scent lingered.

The next morning, she found the ribbon.

She’d unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and paused at the faint flicker of red against the gray of her glove box interior. A silk ribbon, looped and folded into the shape of a heart. Clean. Tidy. Measured. The kind of knot you only learn through repetition.

No note.

No explanation.

She didn’t mention it. She didn’t throw it away.

She placed it in her top desk drawer at work, beneath a file labeled Closed: 2001 – Georgia Facility Report.

Then came the pen—a sleek, black ink fountain pen, identical to the one she’d lost years ago, down to the scratch on the cap. It was left on her desk one afternoon, uncapped, perfectly aligned with her notes. She hadn’t brought it in. Neither had the intern.

Rudy stopped by that day, grinning over his shoulder as he left the room. “Sharp pen. Looks good on you.”

He never asked her out. Never said anything that crossed a line.

But Y/N had the creeping sense that he was already inside the perimeter.

Not pursuing her.

Claiming her.

And she hadn’t told him to stop.

The journals had been boxed, sealed, and labeled “Archived – G. Sanitarium / Not for Review.” She’d moved them three times. They always made the cut.

Now, under the dim lamplight of her apartment, Y/N pulled the top one free—leatherbound, corners softened from years of handling. It still smelled faintly like disinfectant and ink. She opened it with the kind of care you reserve for incisions, not pages.

Inside: her old handwriting, smaller then, precise and curling at the ends. She’d documented every session, every vocal tic, every word that felt like it meant something even when no one else seemed to listen.

Patient #79.

She hadn’t written his real name. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever known it. But the voice echoed so clearly through the pages it felt like he was still sitting across from her, wrists rested on his knees, looking at her like she was both subject and observer.

He doesn’t blink when he describes anatomical separation. He says he “feels most whole when things are in pieces.” That control is honesty, and skin lies.

Says hands reveal more about a person than their eyes. “The eyes perform. The hands confess.”

Y/N’s eyes skimmed down another entry, dated two weeks before the facility closed.

New fixation on preservation. Formalin, dry ice, encasement. The patient wants to “hold beauty in place.”

When I asked him what beauty looked like, he said, “You, when you’re thinking about what I just said.”

She snapped the journal shut. Her fingers didn’t shake. But her breath caught somewhere behind her sternum.

Because two nights ago, Rudy had said something.

They’d been standing outside her apartment after an unplanned encounter at the 24-hour drugstore. They didn’t touch. They never did. But before walking away, he turned and said—offhand, casual, too specific:

“You have a face that sharpens when you’re focused. It’s almost surgical.”

She hadn’t remembered the journal entry until now.

She opened another volume.

More notes. Sketches. A preserved smile rendered in pencil. Bones catalogued in affectionate, academic strokes.

More phrases that matched the ones Rudy had whispered in passing.

The timeline made sense. He would’ve been the right age. The right intelligence. The quiet calm that made the orderlies relax. The way he never raised alarms, but stayed close to the staff. Close to her.

She started flagging pages with red paperclips. Circling terms. Names. Observations that had felt harmless at the time, but now glowed like signs left in plain sight.

She knew what she should do.

Report it. Alert Deb. Confide in someone. Bring the journals in as evidence.

But Y/N didn’t move.

She sat at her desk, surrounded by ink and paper and silence, and kept reading.

Not because she was afraid.

But because the patterns were beautiful.

And she wanted to see how far they would go.

It was always under the surface—Rudy’s questions.

Never direct. Never so pointed that anyone else would notice. But Y/N did. She noticed everything.

Especially when it came to Rudy Cooper. 

It started with a lunch break in the forensics lab. He wandered in under the pretense of delivering a model for limb articulation, but lingered with a sandwich and a grin that never quite touched his eyes.

“You ever wonder,” he asked, biting into the crust, “what it takes for someone to stay conscious through dismemberment?”

Y/N didn’t look up from the photos she was reviewing.

“I assume dosage. Skill. A high tolerance to pain. Why?”

He shrugged, licking a smudge of mustard off his thumb. “Just thinking about nerve endings. Where awareness really ends. I read somewhere that the brain can stay ‘awake’ for as long as thirteen seconds after decapitation. Imagine that.”

“I don’t have to,” she murmured, making a note beside the photo. “I’ve seen the footage.”

He chuckled—low and genuine. “Of course you have.”

Later, it was during one of their quieter moments. She was reading at a café. He appeared without warning and slid into the chair across from her.

“If you were going to preserve something,” he said, as if picking up mid-thought, “would you go with plastination or vitrification?”

Y/N blinked slowly, then marked her place in the book with a receipt.

“Depends on the purpose. Plastination for anatomical display. Vitrification if I cared about cellular integrity.” A beat. “But I’m guessing this is rhetorical.”

He smiled. Tapped a finger against his temple. “Just building a hypothetical. You know how it is.”

Every time they spoke, it was like dancing on the edge of a scalpel. She couldn’t help but meet him where he stood—never backing away, always holding eye contact, answering each insinuation with clinical poise.

“If you were going to rearrange someone… where would you start?” His dark eyes stared into hers, waiting, watching…perhaps even wanting. 

She nodded. “The hands. Most expressive. Most honest.”

Rudy hummed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and Y/N’s eyes caught onto the slight movement with intensity. “What’s the most misunderstood muscle group?”

 “The psoas,” she answered. It was immediate and certain. “Deep, buried. Crucial. People ignore it because it’s not visible.”

“Do you think people know when they’re being chosen?” This was said more carefully, more pushy. Like this question was more important than any of the others he asked her beforehand. 

 “Only if they’re paying attention,” she replies, her voice still sure but quieter. 

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve stopped replying. But something in her—something rooted deep in her ribs—wanted to hear what he’d say next.

And he knew it.

Each time she answered, he leaned a little closer. Smiled a little deeper. Touched the air between them like it was silk.

And Y/N, steady and composed, answered every test like it was an exam she had trained her whole life to pass. 

At first, Dexter had passed her off as background noise—another specialist with credentials and a cold stare, the type who filled folders with jargon but never got their hands dirty.

But Dr. Y/N Morrissey didn’t just observe.

She dissected.

She sat in on briefings without taking over, slipped reports across his desk with post-its marked "See page 3—organ arrangement inconsistency," and walked away before he could ask why she was paying attention to the same things he was trying not to draw attention to.

She didn’t speculate out loud. She didn’t insert herself into fieldwork. But her profiles? They began to read like blueprints of his shadow self.

One morning, Dexter opened a report she’d written. The subject line read: Behavioral Analysis: Serial Pathology and The Art of Surgical Cleanliness And there it was:

“This subject is methodical. Highly intelligent. Dispassionate, but not indifferent. They believe in order. In beauty, even. They are not killing for power or revenge. They are preserving something.”

He reread that last line three times, his grip tightening on the page.

Preserving.

She was circling him, even if she didn’t know it.

Or maybe she did.

He started avoiding her—not obviously. Just enough to sidestep conversation. He left the lab earlier, chose different hallways, rerouted his routines so their orbits wouldn’t collide.

But she still found ways to cross paths. Quietly. With purpose. Always looking at him just a second too long.

Once, in the lab, she’d picked up a blood spatter photo he’d been analyzing and said, almost idly:

“There’s no hesitation in this cut. No instability. Just muscle memory.”

He’d forced a laugh. “A professional job?”

Y/N turned toward him, her expression unreadable.

“No. Not professional. Intentional.”

That night, Dexter sat in his kill room—not hunting, not prepping—just sitting, staring at the knives like they might offer reassurance. They didn’t.

Because Y/N Morrissey wasn’t chasing blood or fame.

She was chasing understanding.

And Dexter could feel it in his bones—she wasn’t far behind.

He didn’t call it a date.

Rudy called it “something interesting I thought you’d appreciate.” He said it with that easy smile, the one he wore like a mask made of warm skin and practiced dimples. No pressure. Just intrigue.

They met in a neutral place—a gas station parking lot off I-95. The sun was setting behind a line of wilted palm trees. He handed her a helmet and didn’t explain why until she saw the motorbike. She didn’t ask questions. Just climbed on.

He drove them to the edge of the city, where buildings sat hollowed out like old bones, condemned but not quite forgotten. The one he stopped at had been a private medical clinic once—burnt around the edges, windows gone, paint peeling in long yellow strips like shedding skin.

Inside, it was too quiet. Not abandoned-quiet. Curated.

He led her through the ruined halls, past the remnants of gurneys and shattered file cabinets. Then he stopped at a heavy door, half-rusted shut, and pried it open with practiced hands.

The room beyond was cold. Not physically—there was no power. But something about the air felt preserved. As if time had been sealed in here like a specimen.

The tableau sat centered beneath a makeshift skylight.

A body—not fresh, not rotted. Preserved. Arranged. Arms outstretched, palms open, bones visible beneath carefully stripped layers of tissue. The face was untouched, eyes closed as if in gentle surrender. The body was posed, fingers curled like a statue, back arched in a silent offering.

Around it: glass jars. Some filled with fluids. Others with nothing but labels and residue. Everything was organized. Catalogued. Cherished.

Rudy didn’t speak. He just stood beside her, watching the way she looked at it. Not with horror. Not even shock.

With recognition.

Y/N said nothing. Not at that moment. Her lips were pressed shut, blood drawn to the surface like bruised fruit.

She walked the perimeter once. Just once. And then she nodded.

Only once.

Later, back at her apartment, she wrote about it.

Her journal’s spine cracked when she opened it—an old one, the one marked #79. Her handwriting was messier this time. Her palm smudged the ink as she wrote. Her hand shook just enough to make the loops crooked.

The body was not mutilated. It was displayed. There was no panic. No rage. It was reverent. Surgical. Sculptural.

I don’t think this was meant for Miami Metro. It wasn’t a challenge.

It was meant for me.

She capped the pen. Sat in silence.

And finally allowed herself to whisper:

“He remembers everything.”

The body was on the table—cool, pale, already processed through the first round of evidence collection. The crime scene team had cleared out. Deb was yelling in another room. Masuka was gone. It was just them now.

Rudy stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, gloves already on. He leaned in slightly, eyes tracing the incision that ran from sternum to pelvis—clean, practiced, gliding perfectly along the midline. Not jagged. Not messy. A statement, not a kill.

Alina was cataloguing ligature bruising on the wrists when he spoke.

“Come here,” he said, softly, without looking up.

She didn’t hesitate.

He moved aside, just enough to let her stand where he had been, and then—without warning—his hand covered hers.

Not forcefully. Not possessively. Just enough to correct the angle of her fingers, tilting them toward the edge of the incision.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “Right along the fascia. Whoever did this, they didn’t cut straight through. They glided. Used the tension. Let the skin open itself.”

His hand didn’t leave hers. His palm was warm through the gloves, anchoring hers like a tutor with a scalpel and a student just slightly off course. His thumb pressed lightly against her knuckle as he guided her along the edge of the cut.

Not erotic.

Surgical. 

Intimate.

The kind of touch that said: We’re the same, you and I. You know what this means.

Her breath caught—not from nerves, not from fear. From focus. From memory. From the sensation of finally being understood on a frequency she’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

The skin beneath her hand was cold and inert.

But the heat between their gloves was unmistakable. Not from friction.

From alignment.

He released her a moment later. Didn’t step back. Just let his hand fall away like it had never been there at all.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Rudy said. “Just needed a little redirection.”

She didn’t reply.

Her hand remained where he left it—poised over the open flesh, gloved fingertips hovering just above the line.

She knew what the cut meant now.

So did he.

The first tableau had been composed. Beautiful, in its own way. The kind of display meant to impress—not law enforcement, but someone specific. Someone who would understand it.

But the next one was different.

The second body was still art, but it was sharper now. Angrier. The arrangement was more aggressive, the wounds stitched not with elegance but with urgency. Still clean. Still cold. But no longer performative.

The third was personal.

A woman, roughly Y/N’s height and build, positioned on a mattress in a condemned motel. Her skin had been flayed in a deliberate pattern—a replication of musculature diagrams found in obscure banned medical anatomy texts. Her face was untouched. Her hands folded. Her hair braided back in a way Alina used to wear during her Briarcliff days.

The room smelled like bleach and sawdust. There was a mirror, propped carefully beside the body, angled to reflect it entirely. As if the killer wanted the viewer to see not just the body— but their own reaction.

Y/N stood there, surrounded by uniforms and evidence markers, and felt the electric prickling beneath her skin. Not fear. Not nausea.

Recognition.

Dexter stood beside her, arms crossed, gaze narrowed—not at the body, but at her. He’d noticed. She was too calm. Her notes are too accurate. Her expression was unreadable, like someone watching the final act of a play she’d seen before.

That night, she found a gift on her doorstep. Not a bouquet. Not a card.

A scalpel.

Sterilized. Wrapped in gauze. Tucked in a case lined with red velvet.

She didn’t report it.

Instead, she locked the door, turned off the lights, and sat in the dark with the case on her lap. Her fingers hovered over it like prayer.

Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a message.

You’re getting closer. You were always meant to.

From that moment on, she was pulled tighter into the inner circle—briefings, crime scenes, high-level analysis. LaGuerta wanted her insight. Deb didn’t trust her. And Dexter—Dexter was watching.

But it wasn’t just them watching anymore.

Rudy was circling.

He started showing up more frequently. Catching her outside the precinct with a look that hovered between affection and hunger.

 He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t tease.

He just lingered.

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” he said one night outside her apartment building, voice low enough to make her throat tighten.

 “See what?” she asked, fisting her keys to the point one of the rough edges sunk into the fat of her palm. 

“The design. The throughline. The truth under the red.”

She didn’t answer.

Because the intimacy between them had turned. It wasn’t fascination anymore.

It was selection.

And she wasn’t sure if she was the chosen…

Or the next exhibit.

It was supposed to be harmless.

A visit under the pretense of shared wine and late-night theory—two professionals comparing notes, deconstructing pathology. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she let him believe.

Rudy arrived precisely at 9:00, holding a bottle of dry red in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his smile disarming, his posture loose and practiced.

“Dinner with a forensic psychiatrist,” he said as she opened the door. “Every man’s dream.”

Y/N didn’t smile. She stepped aside and let him in.

Her apartment was sterile in a lived-in way. Clean, but cold. Books stacked with surgical precision. A single orchid on the windowsill. The scent of bleach faintly clung to the air, masked beneath lavender oil. Her couch hadn’t been used in days. The table had been cleared.

Except for the file.

A thin folder, closed but not hidden, sitting on the desk near her armchair.

Rudy set the wine down. Took in the space. Eyes roaming casually until they landed—right there. The file. And beneath it, the corner of a notebook. Leatherbound. Faint red threading visible in the spine.

She didn’t move to cover it.

He didn’t ask permission. Just wandered closer, knelt as if admiring a curiosity, and brushed a finger across the folder’s edge.

“Is this one of yours?”

Y/N stayed silent.

He opened it. Slowly. Carefully.

Inside: photos. Scans of her old journals. Annotated profiles. A page torn from Briarcliff’s patient logs. Notes written in her precise script, each line spiraling deeper into obsession—not about a killer, but a subject.

Patient #79.

Volunteer assistant.

Reconstruction fixation.

Rudy.

She’d coded his name into the early entries. Used letters instead of numbers. Drawn diagrams of the way he sat. The way he smiled without showing teeth. Quotes she’d once called “unsettling” now circled in red.

And then—just beneath it all—her handwriting, more recent:

He remembers me. He kept everything. So did I.

Rudy didn’t flinch.

He closed the folder with quiet reverence, like someone folding a flag. Turned to look at her—slowly, the smile never quite fading, but shifting.

Not the mask now. The man underneath.

“You knew before Miami,” he said. Not a question.

 “Not until the sketches,” she replied.

 “But you kept it. You studied me.”

 “You wanted me to.”

The silence afterward wasn’t tense. It was electric. A waiting space. A breath held between them.

He took a step toward her. Not threatening. Not tender. Something beyond both.

“Were you ever going to tell anyone?”

 “Not yet.”

He reached out, not for her hand, but for her wrist—lightly brushing his thumb over the pulse there.

“You always understood me,” he said, voice low. “Even when you didn’t want to.” “You always talked like someone who wanted to be caught,” she whispered back.

A beat. His hand dropped.

“Not caught,” he murmured. “Chosen.”

And for the first time in her life, Y/N Morrissey didn’t know if she was the hunter or the prize.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You think you remember. Or at least you’ve convinced yourself that you do.

You go through the painstaking steps as the dark presence looms across the counter. The man walks along, just on the other side of the machines as you steam the milk. Toffee nut, yes, you’re pretty sure that was it.

You put it all together, step by step, hands shaking. Your lips move as you talk yourself through your work silently. You can do this. You still feel how the man scratched you through your shirt when he grabbed you, your skin fiery.

You give one last look to the foam and send a prayer up to whatever deity will hear it. You slowly move to the till and place the cup down. You wet your lips and clear your throat.

“Almond, toffee nut, half blond, half regular, cinnamon on top,” you declare, voice quavering as you stare at the bristle across the man’s upper lip. “Mr. Hansen.”

He clucks and leans on the counter, hooking one foot behind the other. He wraps his hand around the cup and slides it closer to himself. He stares down into as you fidget. You glance around at the baked goods.

“And a cinnamon bun?” You suggest but before you can carry through on the offer, a splash of liquid washes over you, hot despite the layer of steamed milk.

“Oat milk,” he crushes the empty cup in his large hand and throws it at your face. You sputter and blink as the foam drips down your cheeks.

“Sorry, sir, I’ll make it again.”

“Fucking right, you will, sweet lips,” he growls and stands straight, crossing his arms.

You pull the bottom of your apron up and wipe your face. You bend to pick up the empty cup and turn away. Your eyes sting and you wiggle your tingling nose. It’s fine. You can do this.

Oat, half blond, half regular, toffee nut, cinnamon on top. The smell of espresso and syrup clings to you as you make the death march back to the till. You set the cup down without a word.

Mr. Hansen, Lloyd, the boss, whatever he is, considers you as he lifts the drink and examines the careful leafy art in the foam. He turns it and inhales the scent, some of the foam catching in his mustache. He takes a breath as if about to dive into water and has a taste. The tip of his tongue pokes out as he pulls the cup away from his mouth. He hums. Does he like it?

Splash.

Another searing dousing and you stand there with a gasp, shaking off the dredge of his displeasure.

“Mr. Hansen, I--”

“First thing’s first. Shut the fuck up. You talk too much,” he tosses the cup. Bonk, right off your forehead. “Second, I changed my mind. Get me a mocha. Extra whip.”

You nod and keep your head down. You pick up the cup and stand, nearly slipping in the puddle around your feet. You dispose of the empty cup and go to the coffee machine. You begin your new task, hands clumsy and trembling. You add the whipped cream and return to the till. You put the cup down and grab onto the counter to keep from sliding through the liquid at your soles.

He lifts it and you wince, bracing for another deluge. He repeats the same deliberate examination. You swallow tightly as he samples your work. This time he doesn’t make a noise. As he lowers the cup, you flinch and take a step back.

He cackles, “relax, cupcake.”

You stare at him grimly. You flick your lashes and blow out your nerves. You hide your shaking hands behind you.

“Now you know who the fuck I am,” he says, “clean yourself up and get back to work.”

He grabs a package of the cookies along the small shelf beside the till then turns on his heel and struts to the door. You watch after him, damp and dripping. As the door opens and closes, you turn to face the mess. You sigh and go to grab the mop; you can clean the floor but you can’t do much for yourself.

You work at soaking up the excess then spray cleaner on the floor and wipe with paper towel to prevent it from getting sticky. As you work at sopping up the errant droplets from the counter, the door behind you swings open. You glance over your shoulder as Bre sweeps through.

“Alright, your turn--” She stops short as you face her. “What happened?” Her face slackens with dread and shock, “what did you do?”

“It was Mr. Jansen—Hansen,” you correct yourself, “he came by and--”

“I told you not to talk to him,” she hisses.

“I... I didn’t have a choice. He wanted a drink and--”

“Fuck. Fuck! What did he say? What did he do?” She snaps.

You recoil at her accusatory tone, “he... he threw coffee in my face? He took some cookies? I don’t know? He just... said now I know who he is. I didn’t really understand--”

“You don’t. You don’t understand. You don’t get it.”

You frown and cross your arms, “I’m sorry, Bre, I did my best--”

“Not good enough. You think it’s all fun and games. It’s not. That man is dangerous. Not just here, everywhere,” she shakes her head, “you’ll see. Out there, on your own. Give me your apron.”

“What?” You murmur.

“Get out. I’ll call Maurice and let him know it didn’t work out.”

“What? No, you can’t--”

“I am. Give me your apron. Now.”

You pout and sniffle. You reach back behind you and unlace the apron and lift it over your head. You hold it out to her, “it’s wet--”

“Just go.”

You hang your head and turn away. Your eyes begin to stream before you even get through the door. You grab your stuff from the backroom and give one last look around. You got fired. What are you going to do?

You fold your jacket over your arm and sling your bag from your shoulder. You let yourself out into the alley and head down to the street. You stop at the end and cover your face, sniveling behind your hands as you lean on the brick. You don’t want to go back home. You only just got there.

“Whatsa matter, sweet lips?” The low drawl is followed by a loud slurp, “bad day?”

[casperth3ghost]

"mundane hcs" but its acc just shit i do on a daily basis

ANYWAYS, a list of random things i do that i think tts & vat7k characters would do‼️(this is like most characters btw, like not js the main ones this is like as many as i can remeber and that fit with my self projection

lance will get home from the busiest day ever and the first thing he does is make himself a bowl of ice cream, no matter what hour of the day, he WILL have a bowl of ice cream

varian tries to brush his teeth twice a day but usually how it goes is he takes a shower and then lays and bed lying to himself like "yeah ill js rest my eyes for a couple minutes and then ill get up" and then he actually falls asleep, but every morning he brushes his teeth with no problems

eugene used to brag about how many cavities hed get until he had to take care of them and started missing when he didnt have any

rapunzel can be mid convo with somebody while texting them and then out of the blue just space out and like "huh..." when she realizes what js happened

cassandra and yong are both lactose intolerant but cass tries to take care of herself(she drinks almond milk & eats frozen yogurt which are 10/10 alternatives for non-lactose free items BTW) but yong just keeps eating everything and then wonders why he feel absolutely diobolical 10 mins later

catalina says shell start a book and then reads 1 page then forgets about it for around 3 months ans then remeber and the gets so focused on it no one knows if shes okay, angry does the same thing but with tv shows

nuru tends to not stop what shes doing to go pee so shes suffered the consequences(shes had a UTI before)

rapunzel, despite telling everyone around her to drink water, shes always suprisingly dehydrated

ulla will wake up at random times at night wondering why the fuck shes awake and then go right back to bed like nothing happened

donella has thought of multiple schemes to kill people but has decided that for her own good she will not commit any of them

quirin forgets to say please and thank you at restruants and then says them last minute and then gets so embarrassed and akward he will just flat out stop talking, he passed this onto varian who seems to suffer with this to even MORE extent bcuz he doesnt realize when someone is complimenting him so he'll just stare at them and then be liek "oh!! oh my gosh thank you!!" but the person already walked away and now he feels like an asshole

adira will wear the same pair of pants for 3 weeks straight w/o washing them bcuz she wears other pairs in between that pair so she has a pant cycle, but none of the pants get washed until she can acc smell like dog shit on them or smth and realizes just how morbidly gross they are

hector says hes a hopeless romantic but has never fallen in love a day in his life

donella knows every word to satisfied from hamilton but she literallt doesnt relate to angelica in any way, shape, or form

catalina is a shameless taylor swift fan

angry is a taylor fan but she will always refuse to admit it bcuz idk she feels ashamed

rapunzel will find a band that scratches her brain and listen to that band until it is literally impossible for her to do so anymore

cassandra loves fettuchini alfredo

king edmund is an accidental social butterfly

queen ariana had attempted to drown willow in a pool more times than she can count

kind fredric will butt into random convos if even just 1 word peaks his intrest

hugo knows how to crochet but never has enough money or motivation to actually make something even mildly useful

hugo is a "booktok" girly but he doesnt and never has had enough money to invest in the shit ton pile of books he wants

varian would rather go to a meuseum then lay in bed at his house

ulla would do cartwheels in an aquarium if she could w/o getting kicked out

cyrus says goodnight and goodbye to everyone but can never muster up to say "i love you" after just bcuz he thinks itll be too akward😓

amber is the type of gay girl to say "ewww lesbian/gay" to her friend/gf bcuz they say smth gay knowing she is just as queer

uhhhh thats all i can think of rn, but like this is mostly based off shit i do... so take all that as you will🤺‼️ ill post any art i decide to shit out in the next couple of days on here but also a reminder i am painfully active on pintrest so uhhh ya:3!! BTW most of these hcs are just stupid and for fun so like pls dont get offended and feel free to add on or give suggestions:3!!

[lowspoonsfood]

Microwave Instant Oatmeal Muffins

(I don’t know if this blog is still active, but I hope you’re doing well, regardless!)

A slightly modified version of a recipe I found on a vegan cooking blog. It’s good for a quick meal, especially because you don’t have to be super precise with the measurements the way you would baking from scratch. Also, it’s great if you, say, have a texture issue with instant oatmeal but ended up with a lot of it somehow. (No points for guessing how I know that.)

1 packet instant oatmeal (whatever flavor you have on hand)

2 tbsp flour

¼ tsp baking powder

1 tsp neutral oil (I usually use vegetable or canola oil)

¼ cup milk or non-dairy milk (the original used water, but I like using almond milk because the protein makes the whole thing super filling)

Instructions

Dump all of the ingredients in a microwave-safe mug. Stir. 

Microwave on high for two minutes. 

If there are still damp spots, you can add 5-10 second increments until it’s cooked through.

Notes:

You can customize this recipe pretty much as much as you want. Dried fruit, maple syrup, cinnamon, whatever. Just mix it in before you microwave, and keep in mind that you may need to adjust cooking time if you go overboard.

You can measure the dry ingredients out ahead of time if it makes things easier. Honestly, the hardest thing about this is gathering the ingredients.

[customboytoyz]

Oh my god! Oh my god someone stop me from jacking off to puppy mill until I pass out!!! Nara Smith, more like Smith Faganara!! Stop making bread and start making boys!!! No more almond milk for the hubby! Dick milk from scratch for the fag

i'm gonna throw the fuck up laughing 

[master-of-humiliations]

An Old Project of Mine...

There was a girl I was working with some years ago, for some years, on hypnotizing and bimbofying her, or more accurately, making her into a perfect cow.

To start with, she was a C-cup, A-B student with multiple honors classes, and was a switch, submissive to men, dominant to women. She was an avid roleplayer, as she couldn't get the itch scratched IRL due to a lack of community, hence how we met online.

It started slowly, nightly audio tracks for her to sleep to, seep the messages into her subconscious mind, cam sessions to keep her nice and happy in the mean time!

Eventually, we started on the physical changes. Changing up her diet to include foods such as almonds, eggs, cheese, and milk, as well as some name brand lactation-inducing medication she included into her meals and drinks.

The first change to happen was her starting to have difficulty reading. It started bit by bit, where she would lose sentences and have to go back, but eventually got to the point where she fully lost the ability to focus while reading, losing the ability to roleplay in the process and having to fully rely on our cam sessions for any sort of relief. She ended up dropping out of school for failing.

Second thing to change, was the change from a switch to a full-on sub with no desire to dominate, unless it was, as we discussed, a "fellow cow to help teach the ropes".

Third, and this took the longest, was the gradual increase in bust size. She went up to a DD cup, and at her peak of lactation when she was properly hydrated, could produce half a cup. She leaked constantly, usually keeping pads under her bra or shirt when ordered to go braless.

Fourth change was the most fun, in my opinion. She started to get desperately masochistic. We were planning on how to get here from there to here, and as it would be a multiple-day drive, she insisted that I fist until her holes were ruined the night we'd be at a hotel/motel. Another cam session, she wanted orders for nipple torture, all quite fun!

There was one moment deep in the hypnosis where her old self peaked through, and was utterly terrified that she was failing every class, couldn't stop mooing, and had a hard time reading, but the new her returned fairly quickly. Was rather amusing, honestly.

Unfortunately, this story doesn't have as happy an ending as you'd hope. She had a mental break and completely ghosted without warning, so... the long and short of it is, make sure, if you go down this path, your mental fortitude is either strong enough to endure, or weak enough to crumble completely.

[shinnyshining]

Im making my own custom nendoroid

(Still work in progress)

I used Tamiya Epoxy putty smooth type and a customizable nendoroid head (almond milk)

Will be making my all time favorite (the cutest ever) (the most important thing in this world) (my one and only Son) Hachin from SHOW BY ROCK!! Anyway unless your insane like me and know every angle of your character’s hair memorized ,a few inspo pics would help sculpting.I had some but didn’t needed to use them as much for the initial sculpt

I first sculpted the front part and masked the head with some masking tape so that it wouldn’t stick, indeed it didn’t stick to the face but it did stick to the masking tape like crazy , I’ll try oiling the next time

I also did a test with nendoroid Gawr Gura’s face plate when dried, looks good

I didn’t take pics of the back all that much because I HATED IT

Over all I used a pack of 25gr putty and leave it to dry

The next day I got my box cutter and cleaned the bangs and other parts also made his stinger and impaled it to his head for now

Then yesterday, I went and brought some sandpaper to really clean those edges especially in the back before going in with clay again

But ended up finding out that my sandpaper was not that fine and if I want a really smooth look with not scratches I’ll need a finer one, this is how he looks for now

A day ago I decided to get some supplies from amazon since Im going home in a week. Its gonna take me for a while untill I come back so a hobby to pass time there would be good, another head and sculpting kit

I ended up starting to sculpt Yasu (his bf ever) instead, I might go out to get more supplies in a few days

I can’t take tamiya paints on flights (they are flammable) so all I can buy is more clay and hopefully a finer sand paper

Also sculpting yasu’s bird nest of a hair is HELL IT IS HELL WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH HIS HAIR

heck even drawing it is hell

But I digress, I want my favorites as nendoroids 🥺

[ingek73]

The real reason people are mad at Meghan Markle’s new lifestyle show

Leslie Gray Streeter

3/13/2025 5:30 a.m. GMT-4

BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA - DECEMBER 04: Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, attends The Paley Center for Media hosts Paley Honors Fall Gala honoring Tyler Perry at Beverly Wilshire, A Four Seasons Hotel on December 04, 2024 in Beverly Hills, California. (Photo by Unique Nicole/Getty Images)

The role of an elite lifestyle guru is to present aspirational entertaining ideas that could almost be replicated by ordinary folks, but can’t be matched exactly without staff and one’s own goat to milk. Martha Stewart once presented a recipe for making marshmallows, an item available for about two bucks on the shelves of any store. Goop impresario Gwyneth Paltrow sold a candle that supposedly smelled like her genitals for… reasons.

On her hit Netflix show “With Love, Meghan,” the Duchess of Sussex creates a balloon arch for a kid’s birthday party with a pump you could get for less than $20 and makes little tea sandwiches in cute shapes, and on the internet she got literally compared to Marie Antionette. It’s so unhinged that some writers tried to make the show’s ratings, in Netflix’s top ten, into a negative because it didn’t do as well as “Meghan and Harry.”

I wonder what the difference is.

I’m lying. You know what it is.

“There is an obvious answer here. Ultimately it does come down to racism,” said Simone Phillips, who operates the local food site Charm City Table. Paltrow, Stewart and Ina Garten of “The Barefoot Contessa” are rich white ladies, but Meghan — actual royalty — is a rich biracial lady, so critics act like her show takes it a diamond-encrusted bridge too far.

So far, the duchess has been accused of bragging about keeping bees, a pastime Baltimoreans do on their roofs, or using a pricey but readily available Le Creuset pan that lasts virtually forever if taken care of. “I have some at home right now, and I’m not some millionaire,” Phillips said. “I did not fly to Paris to get it shipped to me.”

Some “With Love, Meghan” haters have had their own expensive knives out for her since the moment she started dating Prince Harry. Perhaps that’s because she’s living their adolescent fantasy, and a woman like her isn’t supposed to.

And the umbrage is further umbraging because she’s not only living in style but unapologetically enjoying herself. “It’s Black joy,” said Lynne Childress of Annapolis, a longtime enthusiast of scratch cooking and painting furniture, and my identical twin sister. “That offends some people.”

Every woman I spoke to for this column was raised in majority-Black Baltimore, where it’s common to know every type of Black person. “We can be hood, hood-adjacent or from Roland Park or Homeland,” Phillips said.

It’s not surprising then that those who look like us throw parties or have nice things, whether they spent coupons or the whole treasure chest. What is spent on each “With Love, Meghan” project " might be aspirational, but to say it’s not relatable? That’s ridiculous,” said Kendra Nelson, a lifestyle influencer known as the Charm City Maven.

The Park Heights native took her cues from her proud homemaker mom, Cynthia, who sewed dresses from her own patterns and designed curtains and homemade cards. Now Nelson chronicles her own fabulousness so that people know what’s possible. “The [critical] narrative is pushing against the idea that I can have a joyful, easy fun life,” Nelson said. “Black women have the right and ability to live their full lives. It shouldn’t be such a hard thing to reach for.”

It’s not. Both my grandmothers were consummate hostesses; one had her own garden in her modest but immaculate Prince George’s County home. My sister once made our Thanksgiving dressing out of bread she baked herself. I, on the other hand, used to joke that we should do a show called “Girl, You Know You Can Buy That” where Lynne would harvest her own almond milk and I would just buy a carton at Giant. But even as a single mom with little time on my hands, I have been known to happily make my own matzo balls and vegan cheese.

Black women are not a monolith. My sister, and, by extension, Meghan, whose show has already been renewed, do a lot. But they love it. So let them.

It’s not that mainstream audiences aren’t accustomed to seeing Black wealth on TV. The rich people on “Real Housewives of Potomac” or the recent Maryland-based CBS soap “Beyond The Gates” are blingier. What Meghan has, however, is referred to as a soft life — an existence that requires time and money, but has an ease that’s separated from the grit and toil in which Black people are expected to dwell.

And that’s what pisses the haters off. In 2020, London-based writer Liv Siddall claimed that the image of Black lifestyle blogger and former Elle editor Paula Sutton relaxing on her English countryside estate triggered Siddall into deleting her Instagram account. Many on Twitter at the time immediately clocked that Siddall seemed to be insinuating that it’s inauthentic for non-white people to aspire to that sort of rarified life. Maybe if she was picking vegetables as the cook, she’d belong, but as the lady of the manor? Unheard of!

My best friend Melanie Hood-Wilson, a talented scratch cook, said Meghan’s whole vibe would be received differently if she said, “‘This recipe is from my grandmama down in Alabama.’ We’re supposed to struggle, to be poor person aspirational. Meghan is rich girl aspirational.”

The whole point of the soft life genre, from Martha to the turtleneck-clad heroines of Nancy Meyers movies sipping white wine in their massive coastal kitchens, is to present an aesthetic that is probably fiscally out of reach but still fun to think about and try to replicate at HomeGoods. The resistance to Meghan, apart from the fact that some people just hate her, is a persistent disconnect between who gets to have that dream, and who doesn’t. Surprise! If you can buy that pan, or pump those balloons, you get to have it. And we’re gonna revel in it.

“One of the problems here is that people want her to make herself smaller,” Hood-Wilson said. “We don’t do that anymore. I’m not making myself small for anyone.”

[veganlynx]

Going vegan

If you’d like to go vegan or eat more plant based food, here are some quick tips off the top of my head. I’m old. LOL. I’ve been vegan for ages. Back when you had to make almost everything from scratch.

If you like pulses/legumes, that’s something that’s cheap (well, sort of). I’m not sure if you can get tetrapaks, but maybe canned beans and lentils? Either is easy, since you can just heat the pulses. If you buy dried chickpeas or lentils you usually have to soak them overnight, then boil for a couple of hours, but it costs less to buy.

Nuts and seeds contain protein just like pulses. Remember that some people are allergic to them so be careful. Still, don’t avoid them if you’re not allergic or no one around you. Unless you don’t like them. :)

If you eat carbs, I can recommend pasta, bulgur wheat, barley, potatoes and bread (of course there’s a lot more than that). Pick the ones you like.

Vegetables and fruit are good too. Try to get some fresh fruit but when it comes to veggies frozen and canned will work fine. Dried fruit is good but can’t replace fresh fruit.

Don’t be afraid of fat. Healthy fats. Nuts contain healthy fats. If you want oil, olive oil and rapeseed oil are healthy too. In fact the new vegan ’butters’ are quite good too.

If you like milk or cream, oat milk, soy milk etc is good, but there are so many kinds. I’ve tried soy, oat, coconut, almond, hazelnut, quinoa and millet and I liked them all. Not rice or potato milk though, but maybe you will. And there are more types.

I think that’s it. Unless you’d like to try tofu. Or seitan (wheat gluten), tempeh… There are all kinds of replacement products if you can afford them. I have tried many of those. Basically, I prefer the old-fashioned ones, but they make it easier for a beginner. Oh, and whatever you like now, there’s probably something similar that is vegan.

[youcouldmakealife]

LBTE: Jared (155-157)

The Fallout.

We're in the final 20 now!

If you'd like to follow along, the series page is here.

155. On the Record

“So,” Sharma says. “Can you tell us about the blanket?”

Jared, freshly showered and straight out of practice, blinks at the red light of the camera, probably looking like a confused guppy, then blurts out, “How do you know about the blanket?”, which, as far as responses go, is terrible.

Jared Matheson Julius wore that blanket as a cape.

Twice.

“Uh,” Jared says, scratching his neck awkwardly. “No, it was — it just kind of, y’know, became a thing.”

Jared doesn’t know why he becomes the least articulate guy in the world the moment a camera is turned on him, but you’d think he would have gotten over it by now.

How dare you imply you’re articulate without a camera on you.

Jared looks absolutely ridiculous when he’s taken aback. More like a startled owl than a guppy, but a very unfortunate startled owl. So good to know: he should never allow himself to be surprised by anything ever again. Well, at least not in front of cameras or anyone whose opinion he cares about. Who could takes a startled owl seriously? Not Jared.

Guess you’re not Eeyore anymore, huh?

“I think you look cute,” Bryce protests.

“Your comments about my appearance can’t be trusted,” Jared says. It’s all ‘oh you look great Jared’ no matter what he does. Which Jared appreciates, he does, but seriously: startled owl is not cute.

Bryce pouts, then scrolls through his phone for a moment, before saying, “Aw, look at his little face when he realizes the media’s caught onto the feud. Adorable.”

Love that Bryce hears ‘can’t trust your opinion, you are obviously biased’ and then immediately goes to get supporting evidence from the comment section.

“Fine,” Bryce says. “Your surprised face isn’t adorable.”

Jared warily waits for the catch.

“It’s terrible,” Bryce says. “Embarrassing. If I were you I’d never leave this room again—“

Not the height of chirping, but I’m proud of Bryce for managing it without breaking into ‘except it’s amazing, you know it’s amazing right, you know I love your face??’.

Jared is trying to figure out a way to say ‘you should have a nap with me instead of going with our captain to cheer up hospitalised children’ that doesn’t sound monstrous, and he is having a very hard time.

Another great example of Jared taking a moment to think before speaking and therefore NOT saying anything to that effect.

“Yeah,” Bryce says with a sigh, then leans down and kisses Jared’s temple. “Want me to pick up dinner?”

“Sure,” Jared says. “Can you stop by the grocery store? We’re out of almond milk.”

Bryce makes a face.

Bryce offered to do an errand and then you added ANOTHER errand? He can’t do two errands. Jared, you know this about him. One errand at a time. (I would say he could pick up dinner at the grocery store, but Bryce would just make a face, so it is two errands)

“Fine,” Bryce mutters, then tells Siri to remind him to get almond milk. Jared figures there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll come home with it or dinner, about a five percent chance of him returning with both. Since they currently have leftovers in the fridge, and Bryce can grumble through cow’s milk coffee if needed, that’s fine by Jared.

At least Jared’s considering the odds.

When his phone buzzes he reaches for it almost gratefully, though he doesn’t stay that way, frowning at the I am so sorry from Julius. It could be the start of a prank or something — Julius isn’t a prank person, but then, Jared wouldn’t have said he was a ridiculous bet person either, and look at them now

Julius also isn’t an apology person, which Jared should factor into this.

Fuck, Julius broke up with Erin. Or maybe she broke up with him? Except no, if she broke up with him Julius wouldn’t be apologising. Unless he did something that made it the right call to break up with him, but still, him being the breaker-upper seems more—

And now he has an incoming call from Erin. Jared eyes his phone, refusing to pick it up. He doesn’t know whose side to be on yet.

Jared is the worst. And the best. Hedging his bets for now, waiting for more context before anyone can convince him to show solidarity.

He wonders if it was because Erin bet on the Canucks winning, especially after Jared accidentally blurted that out, made it a public thing. She said Julius was cool with it, but like, Jared would be deeply offended it Bryce bet against him on something.

Julius is getting a delicious home cooked meal out of this, Jared. He could not care less.

so a breakup isn’t a big deal, except for the whole Jaredian implications of things, which really should have been considered more seriously—

This is one of my favourite lines, for Jared unironically creating an adjective for ‘what about ME, guys, have you not thought about ME?’

“Julius is on the phone with his agent, who’s going to call your agent and I guess Bryce’s but he wanted you to know right away but also I think he’s terrified of being the one to tell you—“

Wait back up, Jared didn’t think ‘what about me’ went so far as to involve his agent.

“He didn’t mean to,” Erin says. She sounds miserable, which is frankly sort of terrifying.

Considering she found the last two minor debacles hilarious, not a good sign, but also Jared doesn’t like hearing her upset for…other, familial reasons. Don’t press this.

And someone in the scrum either knew something or just made a joke that was way too close to the truth about Bryce actually being my big brother, like, legally.”

“He’s not your brother,” Jared says. “He’s your brother-in-law, that’s different.”

Jared, she added ‘like, legally’ at the end. How is that not in-law, but with an extra like involved (‘with an extra like involved’ is half the dialogue of this series, thanks to both Jared and Bryce)

“Nothing,” Erin says. “Not like — nothing, but it was the way he said it.”

“The way he said nothing?” Jared says.

“Jared!” Erin says.

“I’m not being oblivious!” Jared says. “You’re not making any sense!”

“You’re so—“ Erin says, then makes a wordless sound of rage.

I see sibling relationships in fiction sometimes with affection and banter and calling each other ‘bro’ and ‘sis’ but frankly, I think ‘makes a wordless sound of rage’ is a good description of how it works on a day to day basis.

(I have never called my brother bro. I have, however, called him broseph, bruh, and ‘wordless sound of rage’)

“I don’t even know,” Erin says. “You try getting a coherent statement out of someone who’s speaking a mix of English and Finnish and terror.”

Try playing broken telephone in three languages, two of which you do not speak, then get back to her.

The clip starts with, “So we hear there’s a certain bet involving a blanket,” which could be directly Jared’s fault, them seeing his interview earlier, or could be the result of the same sort of research on their end.

He. Wore. It. As. A. Cape. Jared.

Twice.

“It must make the rivalry with the Canucks a little more interesting, your girlfriend’s brother on the other side.”

“Jared is a good friend,” Julius says. “And of course we played together. It’s always fun to play him.”

Jared continues to be impressed by just how little personality Julius shows to the media.

What do you want him to say here, Jared, ‘Jared is a petty bitch who stole my blanket’?

“Yes, but Jared said he was not going to get me a Christmas present,” Julius says, which is — okay, Jared did say that, but it makes him look bad.

How dare you directly quote me.

“It must be easier with Marcus out,” someone says. Jared doesn’t recognise the voice, so they probably weren’t on the beat when he was on the Oilers. “Is that going to change the stakes when he comes back?”

“Marcus?” Julius asks, starting to blink rapidly, Halla for confusion, looking a little like a startled owl himself. Jared shuts his eyes.

Julius hates media. It’s not in his first language, and he's been learning English at a breakneck pace in the previous years but still isn’t comfortable in it, there are lights, people are in his personal space, phones and mics are in his breathing space, and the vast majority of the questions he finds to be completely asinine. So when something goes off script it goes VERY off script.

“Well, it’s two against one, right?” the reporter adds. “And you’ve got two protective older brothers on the same team. I don’t envy you those family dinners or those board battles.”

So, Julius, completely overwhelmed at the mo, hears ‘protective older brothers’ and ‘family dinners’ and does not think of a ridiculous article written up some time ago, he thinks ‘fuck’.

So quiet the mics barely pick it up, but with a lot of feeling, Julius says, “Fuck.”

And that’s precisely what comes out of his mouth.

156. Knife Edge

Jared tries to think of what assumptions people are going to make about why Julius panicked, any explanation that could be innocent but still prompt that reaction. He can’t think of any, but then, he can’t think.

Nobody’s thinking straight in this chapter. Except maybe Andreas.

Julius mumbles something. Jared gets ‘sorry’ out of it, but not much else. He doesn’t think it’s Finnish, so this must be the terror Erin was talking about.

This is contrition. Terror was slightly louder and much faster.

“It’s okay,” Jared says. “It’s okay, Julius, okay? I’m not mad at you.”

“You should be,” Julius says.

“Well too fucking bad, I’m not,” Jared says.

Julius is quiet for a long time, other than some too fast breathing.

Julius did not plan for Jared not to be mad at him, and now he’s adrift.

“You’re really not mad?” he finally asks. He sounds very small. It makes Jared want to shake him until he doesn’t sound like that anymore.

No takebacks, please.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jared says. “Bryce’s agent will figure out some semi-plausible excuse again.”

Wishful thinking, maybe, but he’s done it before, so.

“You haven’t looked,” Julius says, “have you?”

OH. Says Julius. He’s not mad at me because he doesn’t know yet. Okay. I will prepare for anger again.

Jared hangs up the phone, then he chucks it across the room. Then, extricating himself from the stupid fucking blanket still twisting around his legs, he goes to retrieve it — safe in a pile of laundry, he’s pissed off, but he doesn’t want to buy a new phone over it — because he has to make some calls, even if he’d really rather not.

Maturity is making sure your phone lands in something soft when you chuck it because you gotta make some calls.

“Can you tell mom and dad,” he says.

“Yeah,” Erin says.

“Thanks,” Jared says, and hangs up while she’s mid-apology. Then texts her Not mad at you just can’t.

Feel you no worries Erin replies.

The Mathesons obviously give each other a lot of shit, but not when it matters (mostly).

Jared tries to calculate when Bryce is going to get home. Depends if he had to make his excuses, wait for a polite time to cut out. Depends on whether he sent his reply from inside the hospital or from the parking lot. Depends on traffic, and — there’s no real way of knowing, but it’s nice to accompany his pacing with some mental math to keep his brain busy so it isn’t speculating on just what’s being said right now, and just how many people are saying it.

Jared will take mental math over helpless speculation any day.

“Yeah,” Bryce says, stone-faced, phone to his ear. His voice is clipped, expression set, so Jared’s going to guess management or his agent. He wouldn’t talk to media or any of the guys right now, and he always looks a little soft when he talks to Elaine, no matter how upset he is. Apparently that’s also true when it comes to Jared, because his face eases into something softer when he meets Jared’s eye.

The two people Bryce drops all his defences around.

“Julius Halla is your sister’s boyfriend?” Summers asks.

“And one of my best friends,” Jared says. “And former linemate.”

He doesn’t care if that sounds petty: Julius is not first and foremost Erin’s boyfriend. And it’s relevant to the situation. Probably.

On the one hand, it is indeed relevant information. On the other hand — Jared.

“Fuck, he’s not funny, is he,” Summers says.

“He is,” Jared says. “But like — in a dry way?”

“Marcus, you think Halla’s funny?” Summers asks. “He make you giggle?”

Bryce looks at Jared.

Bryce is concerned he’s going to get in trouble with someone, and he’s not sure which is worse.

“Stop looking at your husband,” Summers says. “I’m asking you.”

Jesus, no wonder Bryce is terrified of him.

Dave knows the ‘don’t get mad at me’ pause.

“Alright, we’re not doing that then,” Summers says. “Stay by your phones, but don’t answer shit if the call isn’t from me or Greg. If it’s the Canucks, tell them to call me, then get right off the phone. They’re on their side, you understand me? Not yours. Greg and I work for you guys. The Canucks work for the Canucks.”

“If my mom calls and I don’t pick up she’ll—“ Bryce says.

“Jesus Christ, Marcus, you can pick up the phone if your mom calls,” Summers says.

But you just told him he couldn’t! Bryce is so confused.

“Just don’t answer any calls from unknown numbers.”

“Nobody under thirty does that anyway,” Jared says. “Like, just on principle.”

I’d go with under 40 in many cases.

“He calls you Jared,” Bryce says accusingly.

“You do too,” Jared says. “Because Jared is, in fact, my name.”

“How come he doesn’t call you Matheson,” Bryce complains.

Jared pats his wrist. “Bigger problems right now, babe.”

“You’re not even his client,” Bryce mutters.

Bryce knows why you are Dave’s favourite, and agrees, but also: no fair.

“You seem — calm,” Jared says. He also probably seems calm, but he’s balanced on a knife’s edge between eerie calm and complete hysteria right now, whereas Bryce seems legitimately calm. Not happy, but not panicking either. Jared was expecting a lot more panicking.

Bryce has had some time to think between sulks.

“I knew this was a possibility when I signed with the Canucks,” Bryce says.

Also this. When Dave asked him if he still wanted to sign if this was a possibility, and Bryce said yes, that was it. Bryce doesn’t tiptoe into shit, he dives headfirst. He’s been mentally preparing for it to happen since, especially after the team found out.

“Fuck,” Bryce says.

“Yeah,” Jared says.

“No,” Bryce says. “Fuck. I forgot the fucking almond milk.”

He also forgot dinner, but I think these are reasonable extenuating circumstances.

157. Conclusive Evidence

It takes awhile to get the hysterical laughter out of their systems. Long enough that Jared has tears in his eyes and Bryce wheezes out a plaintive, “My ribs,” between shuddering breaths.

“Ow,” Jared agrees, thumbing at a tear track on Bryce’s cheek.

“Fuck,” Bryce says. “Fuck, J.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, wipes the tears off Bryce’s other cheek, then lets Bryce haul him in, wrap himself around Jared, tacky wet face tucked against Jared’s neck. It feels half like he’s shielding Jared with his body, half like he’s using Jared to hide. Both are probably equally true.

<3 teammates

They could just order some delivered, he guesses, but and going out and doing something sounds way better than sitting at home trying not to think about, well — anything. There are way too many things currently in the ‘do not think about this’ portion of Jared’s brain, and sitting with his own thoughts feels like tempting fate right now.

Grocery shopping also beats helpless speculation.

Jared’s in and out as quickly as possible, since aimlessly wandering around Vancouver is also tempting fate, gets back back home after barely twenty minutes. He was expecting Bryce to still be on the phone — Bryce and Elaine chats have a tendency to go on for awhile no matter the circumstance — but instead he’s greeted by Bryce hovering right at the door, a little wild eyed.

“What,” Jared says. “Did you think I ran away?”

Intellectually he didn’t, but emotionally: sheer panic.

“I got you a Coffee Crisp,” Jared says, but Bryce has already discovered this, and is happily mulitasking walking the almond milk to the fridge and unwrapping it so he can shove it in his mouth.

It’s a chocolate bar that tastes like very sweet coffee. It was the GOAT of treats come Halloween, and is up there with nanaimo bars, poutine, and all-dressed chips as Elite Canadian Treats.

“You want some?” Bryce asks, belated and reluctant.

“Ate mine on the walk back,” Jared says. He’s a little touched that Bryce is even offering — fuck knows Jared would not share chocolate right now. Bryce, looking relieved, stuffs the remainder into his mouth.

True love right there.

“If it’s paparazzi I’m going to be so mad,” Jared says, as the knock repeats, insistent.

Do they even have paparazzi, really? Like, they’ve got a few irritating beat journalists, but Jared can’t see any of them hunting down their address and knocking on their door to get a scoop.

I feel like there has to be some level of paparazzi in Vancouver because so many TV shows are shot there? But two Vancouver Canucks wouldn’t even be on their radar.

“I brought you a fruit basket,” Stephen says. “And wine. You’re going to want me to be here when you talk things through with your agents. Gabe’s still trying to find a spot — what the fuck is up with the street parking around your building? Take this stupid basket, it’s ridiculously heavy.”

Stephen’s here to save the day with wine and advice. Gabe provided the ride and the snacks.

“Summers said to let him field all the communication with in the meantime.”

“He’s is the exact person you want handling this right now,” Stephen says, sounding approving. “That or his assistant, I know him, he’s very good.”

Stephen and Andreas’ acquaintanceship makes me happy to think about.

When Jared nudges a knee against his, checking in, Bryce gives him a small, tired looking smile, then offers him a piece of chocolate.

<3333 team

“This is not a cat back in bag situation,” Stephen says.

“Such a cruel metaphor,” Gabe murmurs.

I’m with Gabe. Why has the idiom about drowning cats survived to present day?

“General consensus seems to be that you guys were toying with the fans, dropping hints about your relationship to see if anyone would pick up on it,” Gabe says. “That or that you wanted to tell the world but the Evil Flames Management got in the way and the article was your S.O.S. to the wider world but everyone missed it. Those are the two prevailing theories, at least.”

The internet loves itself a conspiracy, and with hindsight, a lot of Jared and Bryce’s stumbles in hiding their relationship look like bread crumbs rather than fuck ups.

But regardless, cat is very much out of bag, stop looking at me, Gabriel, I’m not hurting cats by saying it.”

“You could use a different metaphor,” Gabe says mildly. “A more humane one.”

Love you, Gabriel.

It’s not actually all that late when Stephen and Gabe head out, but between the situation and the information overload Jared’s gotten from Stephen, and Summers, and Greg when he interrupted shoving pizza into their mouths to reiterate most of what Summers had said, except sounding kind of panicky the whole time, well —

Poor Greg. He’s doing this best.

“Is it bad that I feel, I don’t know,” Jared says.

“Relieved?” Bryce asks.

Jared turns his head, meets Bryce’s eye. It wasn’t the word he was going to use, but it feels like the right one.

Other shoe dropped. World didn’t end.

“I never told you this,” Bryce says, “but before he pulled the strings to get me to Vancouver, Summers told me he was going to ask me a question first, and if I said no the entire deal was off.”

Jared rolls over to look at Bryce. It’s too dark to see him, really, but this feels like the kind of conversation to have face to face.

“He asked if I was still willing to come to the Canucks if coming here lead to me getting outed,” Bryce says. “I didn’t even hesitate, J. He couldn’t even finish getting the question out before I said yes.”

Oh Bryce.

“I wouldn’t have hesitated either,” Jared says. “I just — I wouldn’t have either.”

There’s a flash of teeth in the dark. A grin Jared doesn’t even need to see properly to be a sucker for.

“Yeah, babe,” Bryce says. “I know.”

Not a doubt in Bryce’s mind.

[artemisarticles]

Getting Started

Clear the decks. Take everything out of your pantry, give it a hard look and decide what you can get rid of. Be ruthless. If you haven’t used it in a year, get rid of it.

Keep what looks and smells good. “Expiration,” “sell by,” and “best by” dates are not good guidelines. Some are determined by regulators, others by manufacturers, and almost all are arbitrary. Properly stored, some (unopened) ingredients, like canned fish, can last for years; others, like dried herbs, start declining in quality the moment they are sealed in a container.

Assess what remains. Then organize it according to the logic that makes sense to you: There’s no single best system. Your nut butters might be with the condiments, or the breakfast items, or the baking supplies.

Fill in the blanks with food that will make you a better cook. Each of the pantry lists below is a proposal, not a prescription. There’s no reason to stock black beans if you only like red. There’s no need to have everything here available at all times. You’ll know your pantry is well stocked for your purposes when most of the time, you need only add one or two fresh ingredients to cook one of our recipes from scratch. Or even better, none.

The Essential Pantry

The foundation layer for all three pantries, this is where everyone should start. There’s so much to be done with these basics. The rule here is stock your pantry mostly with what you’re confident using, and what you love to eat. You’ll turn to it again and again.

Oils and vinegars: Extra-virgin olive oil, neutral cooking oil (such as canola or grapeseed), red-wine vinegar, white vinegar or white-wine vinegar.

Cans and jars: Tuna in olive oil, tomato paste, diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, chicken stock or vegetable stock (box-packed tastes better than canned). A good-tasting, simple tomato sauce can become a soup or a stew, or make a quick dinner with pasta or polenta.

Spices and dried herbs: Kosher salt, red-pepper flakes, ground cayenne, curry powder, bay leaves, black peppercorns, sweet paprika, ground cinnamon, ground cumin, garlic powder or granulated garlic, dried thyme and dried oregano. This selection will take you through everything from a basic beef stew to Saturday morning pancakes to Thanksgiving dinner.

Grains and starches: Long-grain white rice, one or two other grains (such as quinoa or farro), dry pasta (one long, one short and chunky), plain bread crumbs, crackers, canned beans (white beans, black beans and-or chickpeas), dry lentils.

Nuts and nut butters: Walnuts, almonds, roasted peanuts, peanut butter (smooth and crunchy).

Sweeteners: Honey, maple syrup, granulated sugar.

Preserves and pickles: Fruit jams and preserves, anchovies.

Condiments and sauces: Basic vinaigrette, mustard (yellow or Dijon), mayonnaise, ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, soy sauce.

Produce: Garlic, onions, all-purpose potatoes (such as Yukon Gold), lemons, shelf-stable tofu (Essential for vegetarians, Expanded for others).

Dairy: Eggs, unsalted butter, cheeses (Cheddar, Jack or Colby, Parmesan), milk or cream for cooking (not skim).

Freezer: Chicken parts, sausages, thick fish fillets, shrimp, thick-sliced bread (for toast), spinach (and other vegetables such as corn and peas), berries (and other fruit such as peaches and mango). Some fruits and vegetables take particularly well to freezing — and in most growing seasons, the quality is better than fresh. Frozen fruit is useful for baking and smoothies.

Baking: All-purpose flour, cornmeal, rolled oats, cornstarch, baking soda, baking powder, pure vanilla extract, light brown sugar, dark brown sugar, confectioners’ sugar, bittersweet baking chocolate, semisweet chocolate chips, raisins or another dried fruit, cocoa powder. With these ingredients on hand, thousands of cookies, brownies, cakes, muffins, quick breads and other sweets can be produced without a trip to the store.

The Expanded Pantry

For the cook who has a grasp of the basics, but wants to be able to stretch toward new options and flavors. Here, long-lasting, punchy ingredients like tahini, hoisin sauce, coconut milk, sherry vinegar and capers are stocked alongside classics: limes with lemons, jasmine rice as well as long-grain, almond butter in addition to peanut butter.

Oils and vinegars: Peanut oil, coconut oil, sesame oil, sherry or balsamic vinegar, apple-cider vinegar.

Cans and jars: Sardines, unsweetened coconut milk, whole Italian plum tomatoes, beef stock (box-packed tastes better than canned). Whole plum tomatoes are rarely called for in recipes, but they tend to be the ripest and best-quality fruit. They can be diced or crushed to use in a recipe — or drained and slow-roasted for an intense topping on omelets, salads, grain bowls or pizza.

Spices: Flaky salt, single-chile powders (such as ancho and pasilla), ground coriander, turmeric, smoked paprika, cardamom, za’atar, allspice, fennel seeds, dry mustard, garam masala (a basic Indian mix of warm spices), five-spice powder (a basic Chinese mix of spices), whole nutmegs.

Grains and starches: Rice noodles, basmati or jasmine rice, brown rice, panko bread crumbs, dry beans.

Nuts and nut butters: Almond butter, tahini, pecans.

Preserves and pickles: Olives (oil-cured and-or in brine), capers in brine. These ingredients, served with good bread and butter, make an elegant appetizer with wine, or everyday snack.

Condiments and sauces: Worcestershire sauce, hoisin, Thai red curry paste, fish sauce, anchovy paste, harissa.

Produce: Russet potatoes, carrots, celery, limes, ginger, avocados, parsley, cilantro, scallions, jalapeños. Keeping chiles, aromatics and herbs on hand gives you instant access to intensely fresh flavors, even for — maybe especially for — the simplest dishes you cook.

Dairy: Plain full-fat yogurt, more intense cheeses (pecorino, feta), salted butter.

Freezer: Pancetta, artichoke hearts, homemade stock, homemade bread crumbs, fresh pasta, vegetables (cauliflower, broccoli, cut and peeled winter squash, chopped onions), cooked grains. Prepared ingredients like chopped onions and cooked grains speed your route to dinner.

Baking: Cake flour, whole-wheat flour, dark baking chocolate, vanilla beans, almond extract, powdered gelatin, molasses, light corn syrup, buttermilk powder, active dry yeast.

The Expert Pantry

For the cook who likes taking global flavors, new methods and viral recipes for a spin. Here, the chiles get hotter, the chocolates darker and the cheeses funkier. These ingredients are just a fraction of what’s out there, but by stocking them, you will be able to cook almost any recipe you come across and experiment with creating your own.

Spices: Hot smoked paprika (pimentón), sumac, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, flaky dried chiles (such as Aleppo, Urfa or Maras), dried whole chiles (like ancho and arból), marjoram, dukkah, baharat, shichimi. Whether you stock spice mixes like baharat (a mix of warm spices used in the Middle East) or shichimi (a Japanese blend of ground chiles and sesame seeds) will depend on the global flavors that most appeal to you.

Grains and starches: Short-grain rice, dried pastas (bucatini, mezzi rigatoni or farfalle), spelt, pearl barley.

Nuts and nut butters: Pine nuts, hazelnuts, pumpkin seeds (pepitas), pistachios. Toasted nuts like these (not as everyday as almond and peanuts) are good in salads and granola, on roasted fish, or just with olives for a classic pre-dinner snack.

Preserves and pickles: Pickled hot peppers, cornichons, kimchi, preserved lemons, roasted chiles, horseradish, caperberries, dried sausages such as saucisson sec and chorizo. The intense flavors of pickled and salted ingredients can be a great pick-me-up for mild dishes. In cooking, you can often substitute a bit of preserved lemon for regular lemon, or use the brine from cornichons as part of the liquid in a recipe.

Condiments and sauces: Gochujang, mango chutney, miso, wasabi, dark soy sauce, Chinese oyster sauce, Asian chili bean pastes.

Produce: Shallots, fresh mint, fresh rosemary, lemongrass, fresh Serrano and Thai bird chiles, fresh bay leaves.

Dairy: Ghee, crème fraîche, aged cheeses (Gruyère, blue cheese). Ghee (Indian-style clarified butter) and crème fraîche can reach much higher temperatures than butter, yogurt and sour cream without burning or breaking, so they are useful in cooking.

Freezer: Edamame, curry leaves, makrut lime leaves, merguez (spicy lamb sausages from North Africa). Fragrant leaves like makrut lime and curry (not the spice mix, but an Indian tree with scented leaves) are much more powerful in frozen form than dried.

Baking: Bread flour, pectin, almond flour, tapioca pearls, rose and orange flower waters, gelatin sheets, black cocoa, currants, fresh yeast, sparkling sugar, pearl sugar, candied citrus rinds

Best Practices

Once you have your ingredients, remember that cooking will always create change and disorder. Cans of tomatoes may never match, spices may never live in matching containers, and your hot sauce collection may always try to take over the condiment shelf. But here are a few final thoughts on how to keep your pantry well stocked and well organized enough to be truly useful.

ORGANIZING TIPS

Cooks with different styles need different systems. Some people store the jam with the dried fruits and maple syrup; others associate it with peanut butter, mustard and mayonnaise. The best logic is your own, and it may take some time to figure that out.

If you can’t see it, you’re probably not going to use it. A storage space with more shelving is the most efficient configuration for ingredients. Drawers or slide-out shelves also help tremendously with visibility.

Store everything you can in clear containers. Airtight plastic ones are best, and available in many shapes, sizes, and systems. Rectangular shapes make the best use of space.

Keep a roll of painter’s tape and some permanent markers in a kitchen drawer. It’ll help you make quick labels.

MAXIMIZING INGREDIENTS

Be realistic about your habits. It’s great to clean and trim a week’s worth of vegetables at once — but if you’re not going to do that, buy smaller quantities.

Buy ground spices in the smallest quantities you can find (except for spices you use regularly). Specialty companies will ship as little as an ounce, about 3 tablespoons. You’ll save space and produce better, brighter flavors in your food.

Buy fresh herbs. Dried herbs used to be a pantry essential, but most start out with very little flavor and lose it quickly in storage. (A couple of exceptions are dried oregano and dried thyme.) Pick up fresh herbs when you need them for a particular recipe; it’s a better investment of money and storage space.

Buy heavy, shelf-stable ingredients like boxed broth and canned tomatoes in bulk; better yet, order them online to save time and irritation. Almost any delivery service or website will offer a better price on these items than a brick-and-mortar store.

Cooked ingredients are much easier to use up than raw ones. Whether you steam, boil, pan-fry or roast, cook anything in your refrigerator that looks tired. You can always use it in a salad, a grain bowl or a pasta.

[elluvians]

trying to get my shit together and cook an actual breakfast. I bought almond milk and I'm going to make some crêpes ��� about time I dropped dairy completely and changed my dietary choices. I need to start preparing food for myself from scratch instead of eating shit and junk. I have no problem cooking dinner for my bf and I but when it comes to making food for just myself I can't make myself do it. some old ED habits don't help either and I'm really not feeling super good lately so it's time to take care of myself a bit more 😔

[inbetweenimperfectmusings]

Ferrari amaryllis grows in the corners

Of a velvet sofa,

Plush, I push my fingers into its buttons,

Pick up dirt with them and perch on the edge,

Slathering thick perfumed lotion

Smelling like almond milk

Into the inch deep cracks in my heels.

Plucking the petals off

Rich roses

One by one 

They make ripples in the bathwater,

Colour it pink until my eyes stream 

With the cologne,

The discarded stems sit in the corner.

Oh well, I say,

I’ll put you in too.

I let the thorns scratch my cheeks,

And pray the scars will finally give me 

That dreamy rosy glow. 

I end up bandaging my stomach

With the paper thin plasters

Of featherweight poppies,

Picked from a field of half seed-pods,

Which I crush to sweeten my morning

Cranberry juice.

I spend the rest of the day

Soaking my fingertips in scarlet polish,

Squeezing sour cherries in my hand

Until the juice stains the underside of my nails.

I sink into my velvet sofa and wonder

When did it become so red.

Now that it matches the floor

And the walls

I hear it asking again, 

Look at me

Look at me,

Am I beautiful yet? 

[littleblondesoprano]

4! 12! 28! 40! 🤓

<3!!!!!! Thank you!!

4. Favorite 80's/90's tv show/s?

Oh, Full House was my JAM. I would wake up early in the morning to watch that. I also loved In Living Color, 3rd Rock From the Sun, AFV, Reba, Fresh Prince, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel (David Boreanaz still has a place in my heart from that, I had a massive crush on Angel), and I don't remember if it was 90s or 2000s, but I loved CatDog.

12. What are you reading now?

Right now I'm reading: 'Made From Scratch: Reclaiming the Pleasures of the American Hearth' by Jean Zimmerman, and also 'Ghost Hunter' by Hans Holtzer.

28. Share a piece of knowledge?

The earliest manuscript (which actually laid some of the foundations of what we see as a modern novel) that used 2nd person was 'La Montre' (The Watch), written in 1666 by Monsieur Balthazar de Bonnecourse. It was a collection of pose and verse, and was translated from French into English by Aphra Ben. Here's a little snippet:

"Do not rise yet; you may find thoughts agreeable enough, when you awake, to entertain you longer in bed. And ’tis in that hour you ought to recollect all the dreams you had in the night. If you had dreamed anything to my advantage, confirm yourself in that thought; but if to my disadvantage, renounce it, and disown the injurious dream."

2nd person was really rare until the 20th century, the first full novel written in 2nd person didn't appear until 1918, with 'Le Serviteur' (The Servant) by Henri Bechelin - then, it was Rex Stout's novel 'How Like A God' in 1929.

I still remember that from my Master's thesis last January.

40. How do your take your coffee/cocoa/tea?

I take my coffee hot, with almond milk and sweetner! Or, if I make the stop at Starbucks, I get the white chocolate peppermint mocha. Hot chocolate is just with whipped cream and sprinkles :3

[amypihcs]

Hello my always supportive friends, from our dear Planet of Apes! Yes, I'm in Calabria, in my dad's little town, a place called Sersale. This town is quite a new one, she's 400 years old and stuck on a mountain this makes for very tiny alleys. Enter guest starts my brother, cousin, aunt 1 and uncle 1. Aunt 1 want to go to the cemetery and wants me and brother to go with her. Alright, all the happy fam jump into the car (meriva opel) and uncle 1 has the great idea to TRY A NEW ROAD.

So we start climbing in the older part of the town, god knows how the car manages. We ask then for directions to a lady that directs us to a downright going alley called Via Mazzini. We get into that hoping the Gear will hold and always trusting Uncle 1 (he's great and i love him so much, i trust him in EVERYTHING) the alley... starts... getting... even... tighter. We arrive at the tightest place and start scratching with the side mirrors when two ladies of the town 'ambush' us and start screaming encoring aunt 1 and cousin from inside the car. We are stuck.

Brother hops down from the car to go check if it fits, then uncle1, aunt1 and i hop down. The older lady recognizes aunt1 and they start chatting and catching up on 50 years time they hadn't met. Usual climb up, get some almond milk, chatting in sersalese, recognising and recalling siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, recognising brother and i as 'your little brother's children, how they look alike!' 'yes, claudio, u' piccirillu, remember him?'.

While they catch up i call first aunt 2 who doesn't answer, then dad. Dad calls uncle 2. Dad and uncle2 get to us, we start laughing. i call aunt 2 'becuase eeeh call her amy!'. Dad, brother and I are sent to the mechanic. The mechanic will take 10 to 15 mins to reach us. i communicate as such to the relatives in loco

The epic trio gets back there. aunt 2 joined the party, they're all chatting and laughing together. After a bit Aunt1 and 2, Cousin and I go away, the men™ stay. While we're make our attempt at the flower shop the mechanic arrives and unstucks the car. Uncle 1 and brother rejoin us on the road.

And we live happily ever after! Only in monkeland!