#cast iron plate

[winemom-culture]

Had enchiladas (basic, just ok) and also elote tonight, was my first time making or honestly ever really eating that tbh and I think it turned out pretty yummy

[citricjoy]

i think a lot about the kind of meals benson cooks for himself and randy once they’ve been running long enough to settle down

[mildmayfoxe]

the thing about having roommates is i HAVE cast irons. but they’re in the basement and i don’t use them because i have roommates. i just bought a VERY cute set of four little dessert size plates with poppies on them from a secondhand store the other week but i’m afraid to actually put them in the kitchen because i have roommates. the last set of little plates i bought has gone almost completely missing, two knives from my set of good knives disappeared some years ago, a vintage bowl from my grandmother from the 40s completely disappeared. i feel like i can’t put anything i actually care about in shared living spaces because i don’t trust anyone! and i don’t want to ban people from using my stuff because that’s not fair!

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I got a handmade rice/soup bowl. Was it indulgent? Slightly. Will I use it? Yes. I refuse to eat out of anything else I love it so much.

[giantkillerjack]

Literally every piece of cookware/dish that has ever been devised in the history of mankind: You can wash me with soap and water!

Cast iron skillet: tehe 🤭 soap and water? I guess that's fine if you like your steak rusty haha 🙈 I can only be washed with salt and oil and lemon and spit or I will immediately die haha so just spit on me okay spit on me and make me clean, mommy 🤗🥵😏💦👅👅👅

Me:

[v-iv-rusty]

as someone who only rarely has enough energy to scrape themselves together enough to cook a decent meal, a shit load of ground beef thrown in a pan with whatever vegetable-ish item happens to be available at the time feels v underrated

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[ephemorata]

“Crystal-Palace, London,” vintage postcard. Year and printing location unknown.

[gildedoak]

Nothing like hot cornbread (or even just BREAD) straight out of the oven with some butter when you're having a terrible day. I feel like if there's a type of recipe that Lucifer would pick up quickly, it's BAKED CARBS. The heat from Hell probably throws off all the proofing/rising times, but he's had several thousand years to practice.

SOUTHERN COMFORT FOOD SERIES Chicken and Waffles Sweet Tea Peach Cobbler Hushpuppies Crab/Crawfish Boil Gumbo (plus character notes!) Beignets (part 2) Shrimp and Grits Biscuits and Gravy Pecan Pie/Sugar Pie Fried Catfish ??? - Season 1 Finale

Description under the cut!

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Colored comic!

Panel 1: Lucifer opens the door to Alastor's room, which is dark inside. L: Hiiii there mister. I made you a snack. Heard you were having a bad day -

Panel 2: Alastor's shadow appears, hissing threateningly at Lucifer, who just stands there with a plate of hot cornbread in his hands, unbothered.

Panel 3: The shadow pauses, noticing the cornbread.

Panel 4: The shadow has gone back to its usual size, and it's sniffing at the plate happily. Alastor (offscreen): Did you make cornbread?

Panel 5: Lucifer sits down on Alastor's bed. Alastor is nowhere to be seen under a massive pile of blankets wrapped around him. All that is visible are his eyes and his hands as he plucks a slice of cornbread off the top of the plate. He glares at it dubiously. L: Yup! Niffty showed me! Even used a cast iron pan!

Panel 6: Alastor munches on the cornbread within the confines of his blanket mountain, though his eyes imply he's quite happy. His shadow sits behind him, beaming and projecting little heart shadows. A: Thank you. Lucifer smiles, pleased with himself.

END DESCRIPTION]

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[bi-writes]

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.