#but then she just STICKS with sauce until its the worst ship possible and its an utter mess of 'ill never give up on him'

[lecliss]

Sakura gets a second point for being the first to complete the tree climbing at being better at chakra control, but at the same time it just feels like she was made good at it so no extra training segment time would have to be put into her getting good at it and it can be all about Sauce and Nart. Idk that feels too pessimistic but also could totally be true.

[tehfloridaman-blog]

Gonzo: Champagne Problems.

The feeling of having stepped in gum is pure fury. Rage unrestrained. Not just mild annoyance, but plain annoyance. The trademark sticky sensation at the bottom of my shoe brought a groan from my lips and a cry of “Goddammit, I stepped in gum!” To me, that was the worst possible outcome of walking to my sixth period class and having to suffer the constant sticking of my shoe to the ground as it accumulated whatever junk was on the unwashed floor of the school’s corridors.

Hair, bits of food, plastic--all of it sticking to this blemish on my footwear. Adding to the sensation that my sole had become like the sucker of an octopus each time it touched the ground. So, yes, I was particularly annoyed that someone had just opted to spit out their gum RIGHT there where I failed to see it. Whatever happened to trashcans?

Oh. Right. Bees happened. Lemme tell you--we had a bee infestation in one of the courtyard trashcans for about...three weeks? Maybe more? Point is, these buzzing lil’ shitheads occupied that trash bin like the Nazis occupied France in World War 2. You could not go near this bin without a dozen bees flying all around it, threatening to kamikaze you at any moment--and they never did, either! It was just  the constant fear of it any time you went to throw something out.

Forget throwing things out at all, actually. Any time you so much as put a tiny bit of pressure onto the pile of trash in that bin, you would wake the swarm. Like kicking an anthill but instead of using your foot it’s an empty Doritos bag. Then you had the people who intentionally bothered this things. On multiple occasions. 

The most noteworthy had to’ve been the guy who sat at this table of people who I could only call barely functional at the best of times. Crude, rude and totally removed--more than once I could overhear their entire conversations not by virtue of only being a few meters away but because they yelled these chats at each other. 

Back to this guy, though. Motherfucker dropkicked the can onto its side and woke up the swarm. Had to be pushed by his friends into picking it back up; how he managed to not get stung makes him a decent mad lad in my book. 

Now I can see your question: “Brandon, why not use another trashcan?”, well my dear reader that is because the nearest one was a firm fifteen second walk away compared to the five of the other one...aaaand it was also bee infested for about a week. I couldn’t even tell you why the fuckers swarmed them. Even after the bins were cleaned of all their contents, they still came to them. 

It’s like something you’d see in a third world country. “Pa! I can’t throw out the trash!” “Why not, son?” “There are bees in the trashcan again!” That’s prolly the closest I’ve ever come to a third world country. Well, I can think of another time. My trip to Jamaica.

This here’s the second image you get when you google Jamaica. Hell, I think the first two dozen or so are solely pictures about how beautiful of an island it is! Don’t get me wrong, Jamaica’s beautiful. The cruise itself was quite some time ago, not when I was super young, but young...er. Maybe five years ago? 

Anywho, trip was hella fun. Went rafting (the only not-fun part was the giant spiders along the sides of the rivers, I started screaming my ass off when one of them almost touched my foot), had some quality food (some kinda ribs with sauce) and then just...went back to the boat. Of course, the experience wasn’t that simple.

Alllll throughout the journey on this island there were just hints that we weren’t getting the full picture. Our Jamaican guides telling us at the stop we were making to begin our raft journey there would be people trying to sell us stuff because we were tourists. Sure enough there was a crowd of about ten to fifteen people trying to give us these cheap electronics still in their original store packages, shouting in broken English while we repeated the same phrase our guides had told us “No thanks, we don’t want it”. 

As we set off on our journey downstream I vividly remember seeing five young boys, clad in their birthday suits as they leaped into the clear waters we had paid money to raft down. This was their land, not ours. It never even struck me until years later that they didn’t even have bathing suits on. At the food spot, a patio area by the edge of a beautiful forest on the back of some old Jamaican house, there was a feral dog. Almost got my hand bit by the thing because, being a stupid kid, I thought it wasn’t starved and had zero domestication.

The most important part of my journey into the reality we don’t see was when my dad and I were waiting to board the ship again, standing by the dock as we were given a view of the local town. My younger eyes focused on a black and white cat sitting in a dug-out area underneath a building. In retrospect, I see the full picture of a crowded street, men dressed in unfitting clothing--some with shoes, some with sandals. Some barefoot. Grey, dirtied streets matching the one to two story buildings on either side of it. The cat was cute, at least, though I don’t blame my dad for not letting me go and pet it.

Going back to present day, after my teacher berated me for using the Lord’s name in vain (I said “Goddammit” after all), I explained to her my source of anger and she chuckled, handing me a paper towel.

“That’s what we call a champagne problem, Brandon!” I just snorted and did my best impression of some upper class snob complaining about his lack of champagne as I removed the sticky substance from the bottom of my shoe. Just like that. Done and gone.

All of that eventually lead me to thinking about why we have to specifically identify a problem as “first world” or “third world”. When we think “champagne” we think...rich! Upper class. Partying. Things you wouldn’t find in that Jamaican slum I saw half a decade ago. 

I’m okay with that.

I’m perfectly fine with saying “The worst thing I have to deal with is gum on my shoe or bees in a trashcan” compared to someone else saying “I’ve gotta deal with the Taliban knocking on my door!” And why? Because that’s...just our life. If you’ve a problem with the severity of your problems, then work to fix it. 

To me, champagne problems--the idea of them and their connotations--are motivation for people to fix the problems they see in other places. That’s not to criticize first world countries, you can’t blame us for being...more well-off? Of course, that’s not an excuse to allow the rest of the world to be worse. A “first world problem” shouldn’t be treated like it’s an infraction against Humanity as a whole, rather it should be an attainable goal.

Why? If the worst problem you have on a day-to-day basis is stepping in gum, then I’d say you’re pretty well off. 

Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be complaining about how cold my coffee is because my bed’s too comfortable so I overslept. Ergh.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (2)

You all underestimate how much I love this character. I also want to thank @dickbutt-writes-again for listening to me freak out so patiently, and giving such concise advice. It’s really helpful.

<<Chapter 1

Your day starts whenever your customers demand it, whether it be seven in the evening for Reinhardt's warm milk or three in the afternoon for Ana's 'tea parties'. The three main meals of the day are also ad-hoc as the agents are always coming in and out of the base at unpredictable times, work through their mealtimes, and (perhaps the worst offense of all) just plain refuse to eat.

Your day ended whenever all agents have retired for the day (or night); those days are few and far between. It wouldn't do to be unavailable when an agent is going hungry, so the time in between orders are filled with other tasks: cleaning, prep work, checking inventory, attending and scheduling remote meetings, planning menus, updating ledgers, maintaining the kitchen tools, etc. The days of twenty chefs in the kitchen at its peak hours (six at its lowest), everyone with a specific responsibility, are long gone.

Sleep came in the form of naps that pass in a blink. A proper night’s rest was impossible with agents like McCree, who is constantly haunted by nightmares and seek the companionship of alcohol to keep them at bay, and Agent D.Va, who refuses to sleep at an appropriate time and wanders often into the cafeteria in search of a late night snack (and some interesting, albeit one-sided, conversations).

Mornings, however quick they come, bring about the need to double check inventory to ensure that no one has come into the kitchen and filched anything. While Athena keeps the place under close watch while you sleep and will alert you of any intruders, she's not omnipotent.

You bite your lip as you go through the numbers, slipping in and out of the walk-in freezer, counting up near-empty containers, meticulously labeled in blue tape and sorted by category.

It shouldn't surprise you so much since the growth of the organization would naturally come with the growth of appetites, but whenever Agent Hanzo orders, the food supplies deplete rapidly. At first, you had chalked it up to malnutrition from being on the run for so long and not having a proper meal, but it is beginning to wear on your limited resources. It’s lucky he’s not at the base often, having to get shipped off with other agents for various missions. (Though, the demands for seconds never fails to make you smile and your heart swell—nothing is better than to know your customers have a healthy appetite and enjoy your cooking.) Between him, Agent Zarya, Agent Reinhardt, and Agent Roadhog, it’s impossible to predict just how much food you’d need without over-ordering.

"Athena. Stats, please."

From one of the screens high above the kitchen, once (and still is) used to show the incoming orders, the statistics of how many calories each agent has burned and a rough estimate of how much they consumed (and lost) within the past twenty-four hours are posted for your scrutiny.

You thin your lips and pace the kitchen, tapping the notepad in your hand. Agent Soldier: 76 has been at the top of the charts lately, and returning his food only half-finished and cold hours later. (It’s painful in more ways than one when you have to scrape off the crusted remains; it makes sleep even more difficult to come by). There's also the matter of Agent Symmetra's dietary restrictions; Agent Mei’s lactose intolerance; Agent D.Va’s preference for spicy food; Agent Reinhardt’s health; the list goes on and on.

As disappointing as it is, it's also a blessing that some agents do not require food (like Agent Zenyatta, who politely passes by your window with a gentle greeting and a friendly wave that you would return shyly. Agent Winston, on the other hand, refuses to eat much beyond peanut butter related delectables and takes the combined effort of Athena and yourself to convince him to eat something different.

You flip through your list again, already mentally trying to piece together a menu for today's meals and snacks from the limited ingredients. There’s always an abundance of rice, so you may have to stick with that again. Maybe some congee for breakfast with some shredded ginger on top (extra ginger for Agent Solider: 76 to open up his appetite). That could help with the rationing, but it’s not necessarily something that all agents would enjoy. Maybe oatmeal should also be given as an option today. But then it’d require toppings that you don’t have.

You turn a page, pursing your lips.

Perhaps the flour reserved specifically for Captain Amari's cookies may have to find its way into everyone else's food. (It's a secret stash of ingredients specially ordered for the woman's afternoon tea gatherings. You took great joy in watching these sessions from the screens in your kitchen, oven still hot and kettle at the ready in case more provisions were needed. You had watched friendships forged over the buttery, crumbly treats, and several relationships mended from a single cup of tea.)

You shake your head of the thought. No, you could never do that to her. The old Head Chef would have your head (but not before Captain Amari did).

Perhaps from another source...

Your sigh echoes in the cavernous kitchen.

The notepad is placed onto an empty counter, and you roll up your sleeves.

It's four days until the next shipment, almost all agents are present. Running out to buy more ingredients is plausible, but risky, and funds were being allocated elsewhere at the moment. If you’re careful and creative enough, you can stretch the current inventory over these remaining days. 

And the health and well-being of the agents always came first.

You'll make this work somehow.

Two days have passed.

You chew some mint leaves, the soothing taste counteracts the slow burning in your stomach that is slowly crawling up into your chest that you steadfastly ignore.

‘Captain Amari prefers this without sauce and a lemon wedge,’ you remind yourself as you finish plating the fish. You reach into the garnish counter with shaky fingers and place the citrus slice beside the well-seasoned, pan-roasted sea bass fillet with blistered asparagus and grape tomatoes. Two slices of thick bread (no butter), her tea (dark like the night with mint), and her appetizers are at the ready on the tray.

You deliver it to the window where the woman waits—you didn’t even have to ring the bell.

The woman slides the tray over to the side, leaning in and down onto the counter. "Have you eaten yet?"

The insides of your stomach prickles and aches at the question, and you have to resist the urge to press down on it. Captain Amari is far too sharp for a woman of her years.

You thread your fingers together to disguise the trembling.

A thick french accent rises from your memories, sharp and loud, "Chefs do not eat until their customers have eaten." It echoes in your mind, stabbing itself into your stomach repeatedly.

"I will," you lie. "After, after I have served everyone." The paltry numbers of today's inventory flashes through your head.

She huffs, disbelieving. "In that case, I will not be having my cookies today."

"You...won't?"

Your mind betrays you and immediately begins concocting recipes that could make use of the eggs, flour, butter, and sugar that the sniper's cookies normally call for. Tortillas, pancakes, velouté sauce, pretzels, soufflés--the possibilities stream in like a torrent at the behest of your aching stomach. It's enough to make you salvate just a bit.

"No, I believe I've had my fill for now."

Integrity shocks your mind out of its gluttonous stupor of handmade pasta, puff pastry, vol-au-vent, and pierogi, and you slap your hands against the counter in alarm.

"Are the, the cookies no longer to your satisfaction? Do they require adjustment? Too much sugar? Too little sugar? Should I change the flour?"

She chuckles, one bony hand resting firmly atop yours. You jerk back, but her grip is too strong. She leans down and pokes her head through the window to peer at you with her single eye. You lean back and look away--her gaze is too sharp, she can likely see the weariness beneath your eyes and the crackling of your lips. You run your tongue over them self-consciously.

“Feed yourself,” she chides firmly, wagging a finger. “Do not make me come in there.”

It is against the rules for non-kitchen staff to enter this sanctuary, but even so, you took her threat to heart. “Yes, madame.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Close the kitchen for an hour, and eat." Without giving you any room for argument, she picks up her tray and walks away, the tail of her jacket flowing behind her.

The quiet holds you for a moment before you look up at the screen. It's blank, but the clock is nearing noon. Closing the kitchen now would mean that the agents would have to wait until you're finished, and that wouldn't do. Maybe you could get by with chewing on some more mint until after lunch is served.

You suddenly grab your midsection when the fire in your stomach flares up angrily as if to protest your decisions, dry coughs disappearing into the sleeve of your elbow. It takes a few moments for you to compose yourself, but by then, your vision is swimming with dots of blues, greens, and whites.

Maybe you should heed Captain Amari's wisdom, after all.

When Ana comes for her afternoon tea, before you hand off her order, you ask again, “Arre you absolutely certain you would not like to have your cookies, Cap--Agent Ana?”

Granted, it would take half an hour to make them at this point, but the nagging in your mind remains.

"I'm very sure," she assures you. “Have you eaten yet?”

Embers still burn in your stomach, but it's bearable--not worth a mention.

“I have, thank you."

It’s the spare heads, fins, and tails of the seabass you have served everyone made into a broth over some leftover rice, but was still a meal that placated your stomach. (You had decided to save the ingredients Captain Amari so generously offered for another occasion—maybe make her some aish baladi—Egyptian bread. It’s not your strong point, but it was something you were willing to attempt for her.)

"Good. You must keep yourself in good health, we are counting on you.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

She scoffs, muttering something fond under her breath as she hefts the tray. "Now, I don’t suppose you could join us today?"

It’s not the first time she’s asked you to join her for tea. But what if someone orders and you're not there to receive it? What if they see you sitting around, joking, laughing, and making merry with the other agents while they stand at the terminal, waiting?

Your hands fly to your face and you inhale sharply. No, that won't do. Eating with your customers is something you can’t do. A chef does not eat before or during their customer’s meal times without someone there to cover.

“Thank you for the offer, but—I couldn’t.”

The older Amari hums contemplatively. "We'll get you to join us one day."

“Please enjoy your tea,” you say, pretending that her comment was just kind teasing and not a threat.

“Where are the cookies?” is the immediate reaction from Hanzo, who has started to become a regular member of these little get-togethers. 

"Why, is that all this old woman is good for? Are the cookies the only reason you keep me company?”

“I--no, you are mistaken.” Hanzo looks away, crossing his arms tightly against himself. 

“I’m just teasing,” she says warmly, placing the tray of cups and kettle on the table. Hanzo grunts, acknowledging the sentiment, but still indignant.

"Oh, let me." Mei is quick to lay out the cups and pour the tea while Ana takes her rightful seat. Hanzo looks irked that he would not be having Ana’s specialty cookies today, but a quick pat from the senior sniper on his arm changes that.

"Don't pout. We'll have some next time."  

"I do not pout. Do not be ridiculous."

She gives him a smug look over the rim of her cup that he tries to pointedly ignore with a loud slurp of his tea and winces at the taste--just a little too dark, doused far too heavily in sugar and mint.

From the kitchen, you stifle a laugh behind your hand as you watch Hanzo's reaction from the screens where the orders normally appear, jotting down in your notepad to make up for this lack of cookies, and that Agent Hanzo dislikes Koshary tea. 

Chapter 3>>