#fraisier does not

[steddie-thirst]

Sweetheart | Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader |

Summary: Eddie discovers he likes sweet things and that included the sweet little thing at the bake shop. He just can't get enough of her or any of her baked goods.

Warnings: cursing, fluff, language, and smoking. Eddie is an absolute idiot in love.

Eddie has an addiction to all things sweet, so when he met you, he slowly but immediately grew an attachment to you. You were sweet as can be and not to mention a little foreign.

"Eddie, are you seriously dragging me down with you again?" Gareth whined, looking over at him as he drove, knuckles clasped tightly around the steering wheel. Headed towards the one place he always found himself trying to avoid, but never could. You were something he could never get enough.

"Gareth, you're my handy dandy wingman." Eddie argues with a grin. "Plus I know you crave those little chocolate croissants." Gareth pouted knowing full well he was right. His weakness for bread was just as great as Eddie's desire to see you. Equality.

You were hard at work in the front of the bakery, checking our customers and preparing cakes. A bakers job was never done until each dessert was fully decorated and being one of the only bakeries in town things were almost never slow. You finished the touches up on the last cake order, icing the last few dollops of a rose onto the base of the cake, before handing over to the awaiting couple. "Here you are, have a lovely evening." They thank you endlessly and scurry out the door signaled with a bell.

Things are quiet for a split second until the bell from the door goes off once more, followed by two pairs of voices, both familiar. You wipe your hands clean of icing and turn to face the customers. "Hello, welcome to-Oh!"

Eddie joined by Gareth walk up the counter eyeing the desserts kept in the display. "Afternoon, sweetheart." Eddie greets you with that signature grin and a cockiness that drives you to giggle.

"Hello, Eddie. Gareth." He nods to you and then turned towards the display of which he noticed one of the cases was void of any baked goods, particularly the croissants he adored, "Uhm are you out of the croissants?"

You smiled knowing Gareth's love for the particular sweet, "For now. My mother is finishing the dipping now." His lips spread into a smile and Eddie rolls his eyes.

"He's obsessed. Maybe he needs therapy for his addiction." He leans over the counter to be closer to you, elbows keeping his upper body propped up.

You grin, "Let me guess. You'd like a slice of the strawberry cake?" The way your accent laced the sentence made it even more dreamy. He always wanted to communicate on the level you did with your mother always shouting something demanding, yet loving in the same language.

"You know me so well. How does one say strawberry cake in French, sweetheart?" He asks curiosity getting the better of him. You ring him up for the same item along with Gareth, and he pays as you mull the question over.

"Well, just strawberry would be different than saying strawberry cake. So, le fraisier is just strawberry. Strawberry cake is pronounced, Charlotte aux Fraise."

Eddie hums as you hand him back his change flashing a smile his way and slipping on a pair of gloves to prepare the necessary items. Your mother walked to the front and placed down a fresh tray of croissants and passes with a phrase of love towards the customers.

"Eddie, c'est bon de te voir!" She smiles waving to him before he greets her back.

Putting you in shock as they effortlessly flow from his lips, "Bien, à vous aussi. Continue le bon travail sur ces desserts, ils sont à tomber par terre." You smile, a heat spreading through you. It was nice someone took the time to understand you and the language you so closely shared.

Eddie watches as you slide the slice of cake over the table with his two croissants, Gareth ordered. "Thank you, Eddie. Enjoy." When he reaches for the plates, before you can pull your hands back his own capture your wrists in a gentle hold.

"What I would enjoy is a date with the sweetest thing in Hawkins." A blush creeps onto your cheeks and up to the tips of your ears. Eddie was always such a gentlemen and now he was asking you out, you felt joyful.

"A date?"

"Un rendez-vous avec moi." Eddie confirms and you giggle nodding happily.

"Oui. Je suis libre, vendredi." You respond a bit smugly and Eddie chuckles, going to sit down with Gareth and deliver the good news. So, that very evening you and Eddie went out on a date. Enjoying not only good fun, food, and a movie but each other's company as well. He was genuinely nice guy.

"Eddie, you're nothing like what the town says you are. A freak." You are gentle, almost careful with the next few words. "Kind enough to get to know me, my mother, and my language it says a lot about you. Not to mention how much you support our shop." Your hand squeezes his own hand to reassure him.

Eddie chuckles a smile spreading onto his lips, happy to finally have someone to understand him. "It's not just me being nice, I like you, Belle. The sweetest, but most brilliant girl in all of Hawkins." Your hands start to swing back and forth according to Eddie's arm leading yours in the motion. "You're my everything." He sighs, stopping and turning to you.

TAGLIST:

@yaspillz @dahliamae @munsonloverblog @off-phelia @strangerthingsstories5255 @fujiihime @shyposttree @damon-loves-pie @fanficfanatic204 @seratoninsickness @k0urti @thatlonelypieceoftoast @marianita195 @phantomxoxo @wittlewowa @buchanansbaby @rollergirlworld @allithewriter @555stargirl555 @gothguitargal @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @carol-munson @ali-r3n @letmebeyoureuphoria @cherry-omi @harrys-tittie @yearwalker96 @lipglossanon @thepastdied @brittney69 @jessevans

[ara0minthe]

Tuesday, 13th of August / Mardi 13 août

────୨ৎ────

Café "Debotte", in Nantes, France.

Sleep / Sommeil : 1am to 11:30am

I'm proud for sleeping before 2am, but I got out of bed late even though I was supposed to wake up at 9:30am.

I was so tired, I guess the day before had made me really tired so I couldn't help but push back my alarm clock 😭.

Health / Santé : Ate alright; not excessively,

(which I can feel proud of, because I do tend to eat too much or snack excessively when I stay at home too much , so I'm fighting against that, and lately it's been nice.)

Today I walked 6500 steps. That's an alright dose of activity (for me).

Study / Études : 20 minutes of revision only. And 20 minutes of reading my book "kilomètre zéro". (It's a French book)

Since I got up at almost 12 today and got out with friends, I had almost no time to work.

And my family always interrupts me so it's hard to study when they're around.

And when I got home after going out, I was tired and my mind could not work, so I forced myself to read two chapters of my book at least.

My day / Ma journée :

Woke up late. Did a few things. Managed to revise for 20 minutes before going out to meet some friends.

For the first time, I got to a café, and it was with 2 bff's on top of that. (It was in my summer to do list so I can cross that) (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭

And we ate some pâtisseries with coffee and hot chocolate.

I ate a "fraisier" with " du chocolat chaud à la chantilly"

The café was empty when we entered so it was just us, and we ate and talked a lot. Since it was just us, we were so comfortable, and the workers were lovely.

Our other friends are traveling so it was just us 3 from the friend group today. (Funny thing, the 2 friends I got out with today both have the same name) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Then it's already 5pm, we spent an hour talking in the cafe and one of the friend has to go.

So we escorted her and got to the "Fnac" (dunno if y'all know this store, it sells electronic devices and all types of books, it's well-known in France).

We took a tour of the store, just looking around while talking. (Friends really make life experiences a hundred times better ♡♡♡)

Then she also has to go, so I also go, I look around a bookstore that resells books. There was one I'm looking for called "Beach Read", I wanted to buy a used one for cheap but didn't find it. (I could read it in French because I live in France and the book has been translated, but I sometimes like to buy books in English so my English level doesn't decrease. And I'm glad I can buy english books in France, and they also happen to cost less than the french version, which is nice.)

Anyway, I decided to command it in a library, it should be available in less than a week.

Then, I buy some cookies for my hungry brother at home.

And on the way home, I buy myself a bubble tea and a poke bowl.

Wasn't really hungry, so that was my dinner.

When I got home I was just so tired. I wanted to sleep immediately, but it was 8pm, too early.

I preferred to wait until a more adequate sleeping time so I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to go back to sleep for multiple hours. 😔

Anyway, I kept myself busy, read, journaled, right now it's 11:30pm and I will now sleep immediately.

My goal for tomorrow is to wake up at 9am.

(Sleep is my worst flaw right now, and it's the hardest thing for me to improve on, waking up at 9 may seem like nothing for most people, but as ridiculous as it may sound, it's a real challenge for me. And I CAN wake up early if something obligates me, like school or other social reasons. But if it's for myself, it's almost impossible.)

Anyway. I will now sleep and wish for the better.

À plus les chouchous, on se voit demain <3.

By the way, I thought about that only know, but I know right now there are lots of tourists in France because of the Olympic games, and it's even been a few weeks that I hear multiple languages when I go out, like Italian and English, which doesn't happen usually.

Nantes, the city where I live is also part of the 10 most populated cities in France, it's not far from Paris and situated in the West, so it makes sense that people also come to Nantes.

So I was just thinking about that, if some of you are in Nantes right now let me know, I could give out multiple places to visit and lots of things to do. Nantes is an incredible city, there is so much to do.

So let me know. And have an excellent time in France and its beautiful cities. <33

[jerzwriter]

Hey sis! As you know, I'm finally watching Frasier. And I thought one of Niles' funniest lines from the first season would make for a fun ask!

For T, E and C: what does hell's waiting room look like in their mind? Lol

If you don't get any ideas for either of the characters, feel free to skip them!

Oh, how I love that you're loving Fraisier! One of the best comedies of all time! (I should rewatch...) I had to give this some thought... but here goes.

Ethan: It looks like a hospital waiting room - very antiseptic and cold, uncomfortable chairs. The room is filled with new interns - and only new interns. They're clueless, lost, and whiny. He goes to get coffee, and all they have is a generic-brand decaf and cheap paper cups that disintegrate way too fast. No electronics or wifi; he's desperate for a distraction, so he grabs one of the magazines. All they have are really bad teenage girl magazines. He's rolling his eyes when the music starts. And it's all Taylor. Now, he's grown to like a lot of Taylor, thanks to Kaycee... but this is the stuff he doesn't like. And it doesn't stop. An intern whispers that there is a secret bar in the back, and they have Scotch. He's thanking all that is holy, and he gets there, and all they have is some real, low-end, bottom-shelf shit - that puts him over the edge. lol

Tobias: It's a nice-looking room, kind of dark and stylish, mood lighting. Reminds him a little of his first bachelor pad in Boston. He's thinking, "OK, this isn't too bad." He man spreads, all comfy on the overstuffed sofa, when he turns around and sees his Mom scowling at him disapprovingly. She shakes her head and leaves without a word. He's thinking, "I'm in for it," but the room is nice, he's cozy, so he's relaxing when... one by one, every single one of his exes pops into the room. Talk about worlds colliding. One or two, he can handle, then they just keep arriving, and not all are happy with him. He's like it's OK. I'm just going to slide out the door like Mom did. Then... all the doors disappear, the mood lighting disappears, and it's now a bright, doorless/windowless room... and he's trapped. lol

Casey: This is the most difficult one for me - at first - I thought. Because Casey is always looking for the best in things, she can have fun at an insurance seminar. So I was going to pass. Then I thought.... it would be a Trump rally. I said what I said.

Thanks for asking, my friend! This was so much fun! xo

[histrionic-dragon]

Tumblr keeps having errors on one particular post for some reason, so pardon my linking rather than reblogging.

Anyway, re this post, I was apparently unclear about what was funny and now it won’t let me re-reblog and clarify, except when I accidentally did it on my other blog. Weird. https://histrionic-dragon.tumblr.com/post/702003345643257856/just-letting-people-know-that-when-youre-on#notes

So, what I find funny (and shared in the hope that others would find it funny too) IS the ambiguity between Eddies, which I DO NOT want cleared up. I love being halfway through skimming something and then realizing it’s not actually about a pirate. Here’s the more-detailed explanation:

LOL! Yeah, I know this one does. The missing piece that I guess I didn’t spell out clearly enough here is that they often don’t. The fact that this one, unusually, specified made me go “Ah, it’s not Mystery Eddie!”–which made me think of the funny thing, think that others might also find the funny thing funny, and so I shared the funny thing on this thread.

And perhaps it also wasn’t clear enough that I don’t want more. I don’t need to know what’s going on. The confusion is what’s enjoyable. It’s like getting halfway through a post before realizing it’s about Hawkeye from M*A*S*H and not Clint Barton, only I haven’t seen the source material for any of the possibilities here, so it’s even screwier.

I think henceforth I’ll try to assume every Eddie is the dog from Fraisier.

Other delightful confusions: Steve (Stranger Things or Captain America?); Jon (Harker from Dracula or the guy from the horror podcast?).

[eggsistential-breakdown]

extremely tired, have some assorted scp doodles

[dreamwritesimagines]

“I still have scratch marks from that one time I ate the last piece of strawberry cake when she was seven, she turns into a rabid cat when she’s angry,” Elias retorted. “She used my own arm as leverage to reach up to my hair to pull it—”

I NEED A HC OF THIS! Or of the duchess finding them or something! I just love knowing more about their childhood

Omg the duchess finding them 😂 It would be hilarious! 😂 She probably went like

"Hey- hey! None of that, what on earth is happening?"

"She attacked me out of nowhere!"

"Maman, I was saving it!"

"What?"

"Fraisier!"

"What does strawberry cake have anything to do with-"

"He ate it!"

"You should have written 'do not eat' on it then!"

"But I don't know how to write that in English!"

"Alright, stop, both of you! No one is attacking anyone ever, you hear me? No excuses."

"But maman-"

"You're grounded. Elias come here, let me see."

[fireinmoonshot]

More imagines/drabbles/one shots for Booker from The Old Guard please :)

A/N: I was stalking The Old Guard’s Instagram page the other day and found out that we actually have a canon birthday for Booker, so I knew I had to write something revolving around that, and so here we have this! I just finished rewatching the film for the third time and my love for Booker is stronger than ever, so enjoy!

You weren’t quite sure when it had been decided, but at some point, it had become a mutual decision between all members of the Guard that birthdays just wouldn’t be celebrated. There came a time when they became more depressing than happy. For example, when you reached 150 and still looked relatively young, and the thoughts came to mind of the family who were long gone, it wasn’t so exciting anymore.

But there were exceptions.

For example, the 250th birthday of Booker on May 17th 2020.

It became the job of Nicky, Joe and Nile to keep him from suspecting anything while you and Andy ducked out to buy a cake. Neither of you could be bothered cooking, and during your time living in Paris with Booker, you’d found several lovely bakeries.

When you came back to your shared apartment holding a box with a cake, you found Booker on the couch, sat between Nicky and Joe, staring at something on the television with a frown on his face. He’d never liked television much. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and sat up a little straighter as he saw you and Andy enter.

“Where have you two been?” He asked, not having realised you’d even gone.

Booker looked around, confused, as Nicky and Joe ushered him over to the table where Nile was already sat waiting, slightly smiling at Booker’s confusion. They pulled out a seat for him and forced him to sit down. He looked up and met your eyes.

“Am I going to get an explanation…?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Right here.”

You sat the cake box down on the table and then crossed to stand behind him. You leant over and pressed your lips to his cheek, arms resting over each of his shoulders while Andy pulled open the lid of the box to reveal a beautifully made fraisier cake.

Booker laughed at the sight of the cake. “Yeah, this tells me nothing.”

Perfectly timed, Nicky began a round of happy birthday. Nile, Joe, Andy and you all joined in, and that was when it clicked. Booker started to laugh once again, finally getting it. He looked up at you, eyebrows raised, halfway through the song.

When everyone had finished singing, Booker applauded briefly.

“Right, I get it,” he nodded. “It’s my birthday. Right? That makes me, what…” He quickly did the math. “Two hundred and fifty? Jeez. I’m getting old.” He glanced up at you again with a smirk, and then looked around at the others. “This is unexpected.”

“Well, we thought it would be a nice surprise,” Andy shrugged and slid into a spare seat. During the song, Nicky and Joe had both found a seat themselves, though they were still sat quite close together. “Was it?”

Booker seemed to think over it for a moment. “I thought we didn’t celebrate birthdays.”

“We don’t,” you admitted. “But I noticed you’ve been a bit down lately, and then I realised your birthday was coming up. That it was a milestone birthday.” You pecked his cheek again. “You deserve a day full of nothing but happiness. No fighting, no danger. Just your family. And cake.”

He chuckled, eyes going to the cake. “It does look like a good cake.”

“Yeah, so can we eat it?” Joe added.

Nicky swiftly, but gently, elbowed him.

For the sake of the group, Nile disappeared to grab a knife for Booker, who cut the cake into several slices and served it up to everyone. You pulled up a spare seat beside him and were about to dig into your own piece when Booker leant over to you.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know? I know you don’t like birthdays.”

You met his eyes. “I know. But I wanted to. Like I said, you deserve some happy.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I have enough happy with you.”

You leant over and kissed him properly this time, not caring about the fact that the others were probably staring daggers at you for the PDA at the dining table. “You can never have too much happy, Book,” you insisted after you pulled away. “And make the most of today, okay? Because I’m not buying you a cake for 251.”

Booker snorted a laugh. “Good. You had me worried for a second there.”

[ghostlyfanparadise]

I must have fallen asleep at some point because when I open my eyes jack is over in the chair sleeping he hasn’t done that since I was in high school I stretch in my bed then I stand up and walk over to him I lightly tap him on the shoulder he pushes my hand away I tap him again “uh what” he moans and I smile he hasn’t changed not one bit “wake up” I say he opens his eyes and wipes the sleep away from his eyes “why did you sleep in here” I ask “I wanted to make sure you were ok after the general told me what you did” he says “how’s Daniel” I ask “still out they hit him harder then the rest but fraisier says he’ll be ok” he says I nod my head ok and ask “Gould” “yes” he says I get up and start walking towards the infermry “he’s not awake yet” jack says but I ignore him when I there I sit in the chair next to him and take his hand “he’s going to be ok” I hear Janet say then she says “don’t do what you did with jack your body is still recovering” I sigh I just need him to be ok if nothing else I stand up and climb into bed next to him I put my head on his chest so I can hear is heart to make sure he’s still alive I close my eyes and go to sleep when I feel a light tap on my shoulder I open my eyes and stretch my arms when I feel someone push my arm I turn my head and see Daniel awake “your awake” I say “I have been for about 5 minutes” he says “sorry for falling asleep on you again” I say sitting up “oh come on he loves it when you sleep on him” jack says from the door way I swing my legs over the side of the bed “we’re are you going it’s not like the whole base knows you to are together” jack says I roll my eyes and turn facing Daniel his face red with emberament he’s so cute like this I can feel my stomach get butterflies and I start blushing “I hate to break it to you jax but your acting like a 16 year old who just got asked out by the school quater back” I don’t know what prossed me in that moment but I walk up to him and smack him then I hold him up at the wall by his throat I tried to kill my own brother the man who practically raised me I hear yelling but I don’t listen then everything goes black when I open my eyes I try to move my arms but can’t then I noticed there strapped down “it wasn’t a dream was it” I ask “you think choking me is a dream what do you dream jax” jack yells and I can tell he’s beyond mad “I’m sorry jack I don’t know what happened I’m sorry” I say and I start to feel tears coming down my face but he still stands there arms cross staring at me with that death stair he does then fraiser walks over and says “it’s not her fault” “what happened then” Daniel says “I’m not sure but I did a scan after telic shot her and the results was like when your angry but instead of just one small part of the brain it was everything I don’t know why or what caused it it might be her powers or a new one of some sort” she says then Sam asks “so can we untie her” “yes” fraiser responds then Daniel get closer and unties my wrist I take my arm and move my wrist around some he does the same to the other one I sit up and he starts to undo my ankles when he finishes I get off the bed and fall to the floor immediately Daniel helps me up and asks “are you ok” I try to regain balance but can’t so he helps me back up on the bed “well I can’t walk so I guess I’m fine” he smiles and says “good to have you back детка” (baby)

[great-jenna-bake-off]

Season 3 Episode 9: Fraisier Cake

I thought working from (and spending literally all my time at) home would give me more time to bake, but then I got a puppy and my life got turned upside down. She's very cute, but man does she take up a lot of time that I could otherwise be spending baking. Or eating. So maybe it's for the best that I got a puppy.

Anyway, I finally managed to get my act together long enough to make my next bake: a Fraisier cake. We're getting toward the end of the season, so the technical bakes are getting harder and more esoteric. I have certainly never heard of a Fraisier cake, let alone eaten one, but at first glance it didn't look... that hard? It's basically a sponge cake with some creme patissiere, decorated with fresh strawberries and marzipan. How hard could that be? (Famous last words...)

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/fraisier_cake_75507

The first step was to make the actual cake portion of the Fraisier cake. The recipe calls for "self-raising flour", and after a few recent improvisations with less than ideal results, I decided to just shell out for the actual ingredient. However, this new strategy hit a speed bump when the recipe called for an "electric hand whisk", which, as mentioned previously, I do not own. No matter; surely I could kick it old-school and rely on my own brute strength to mix the cake ingredients by hand as they heated on the stove top.

This will definitely not create any problems for me down the line...

Editor’s Note: If you’re thinking to yourself, some of these pictures seem smaller than usual, you would be correct. If you’re also thinking to yourself, Jenna is probably too lazy to figure out how to resize them and make them consistent, you are also correct. 

According to the recipe, I would be done when the mixture had doubled in volume and was pale in color.

Looks pale to me?

Next, it was time to add the all-important self raising flour.

Gently folded in as to keep in the air that I painstakingly whipped up by hand.

And voila; cake batter was ready to go into the oven.

Looks good so far!

I thought I was off to a good start, but as soon as my cake came out of the oven, I realized I was in trouble. The recipe specifies that the cake should be about 2 inches in height, as you need to slice it in half to make two layers. Mine was... not.

It's like... half an inch, maybe?

Uh oh. Maybe that hand whisking didn't do the trick after all. Still, the cake looked reasonably tasty, so I decided to just move on and start my creme patissiere. First, I had to boil my milk and vanilla pod.

This smelled really nice.

Then it was time for some more whisking: this time of eggs, cornflour, sugar, and kirsch, which is a cherry-flavored brandy.

Fun fact: kirsch is pretty disgusting on its own. Wilson volunteered to drink what I didn't use in this recipe, which was fine by me as it tasted like nail polish remover. Do not recommend.

Finally, I had to whisk the egg mixture and the hot milk together.

My whisking arm is getting a workout today.

Then, I needed to put the mixture back on the stove and watch it very carefully, as in about four minutes the mixture would thicken very quickly. Well, four minutes came and went, and nothing happened. I diligently kept my eye on it, but it definitely did not appear to be approaching a texture that was "thick enough to pipe", per the recipe.

Nothing happening yet...

So finally, I committed a cardinal GBBO sin. I took my eye off the stove for JUST A MINUTE to wash the dishes. And when I came back, my creme patissiere had turned into this:

Uh oh.

I have never made a creme patissiere before. But I have eaten it, and I know it's not supposed to be THIS thick. It's supposed to be velvety and creamy and delicious, while this was more of an... eggy gloop? But hey, it was certainly thick enough to pipe. Maybe the next step of adding butter would help.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t!

So my creme patissiere looked like mashed potatoes. If I were on the show, this is where I would realize I had gone horribly wrong and would toss this creme in the bin before starting over. But, given that I would not actually be serving my food to Paul and Mary, I decided to soldier on. After all, at least my creme was thick enough to pipe. Maybe this was what I was supposed to do after all? So I stuck the creme patissiere in the fridge to cool and crossed my fingers that I would somehow have a delicious, smooth creme when it came out.

Maybe this doesn’t look so bad??

The final step before assembly was to make a lemon syrup, which thankfully was pretty simple after all the missteps I’d already made in this recipe. However, I soon found myself facing another problem: I needed to roll out a layer of marzipan to put on top of my cake, but I had left my rolling pin at Wilson’s house (we made a chicken pie). Luckily, I had a substitute:

When in doubt, break out the wine.

And hey, it actually did the trick.

Who needs a rolling pin?

Finally, it was time to put my cake together. First, I faced the problem of slicing my extremely thin sponge into to layers. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best...

Not actually that terrible.

With some creative construction work, I was able to get two fairly even layers.

No one will ever know.

And now, it was time to stack. In an ideal world, I would have had a strip of acetate plastic to line my springform pan with and had a beautiful, clean surface to work on. But I didn’t even have a rolling pin handy; obviously I don’t have acetate lining around. So plastic wrap would have to do.

If it works, it works.

Then it was time to turn my attention to my strawberries. I picked out the prettiest, most evenly sized ones I could find, and halved them.

At least these turned out pretty. 

And then, it was construction time. First, I put in a layer of cake, brushed it with lemon syrup (my pastry brush was also at Wilson’s, so really I spooned on the syrup), and then added a “little crown of strawberries”, as per the recipe.

Regal.

Next, it was time to see if my creme patissiere had magically transformed into the right texture in the fridge.

Nope, still lumpy. But at least it was pretty solid...?

I added some more chopped strawberries on top.

At least the strawberries will taste good.

Then it was time for the rest of my “creme patissiere”, if you can even call it that at this point.

So lumpy. 

And then finally, I put on the other half of the cake, spooned over some more syrup, and topped it off with my marzipan. The recipe specified that I should melt some chocolate and make “pretty” decorations, and honestly I kind of wanted to call it a day given all my struggles and just forgo the chocolate. But in the spirit of the competition, I gave it a go anyway:

There is no design to this chocolate, this is the epitome of winging it.

I left the whole godforsaken mess to cool in the fridge overnight. In the meantime, it was time to check in with the bakers to see if they’d fare any better than I did with this Fraisier cake.

***

Mel starts off by referring to a Fraisier cake as a well-known celebration cake, which is certainly news to me.

Must be more popular in the UK, I guess.

The bakers start off by making a genoise sponge, and surprisingly, James chooses to whisk his by hand as well.

Dedication.

However, after seeing Dani’s batter, I can see that I have clearly not even come close to whipping mine for long enough.

This explains the lack of volume in my cake, I guess.

Dani struggles with the creme patissiere, though - she says that hers has “cellulite”.

It’s lumpy like mine, but I never thought to sieve it. 

As always, James seems to know exactly what to do.

Such smooth creme. 

All the bakers, however, struggle with setting up the acetate.

This makes me feel better about my plastic wrapped cake.

When it comes time to assemble, I can see that my creme is indeed thicker than the bakers’, even Dani’s.

Much more pipeable.

However, this may not be such a bad thing after all - Dani’s cake starts falling apart as soon as she takes it out of the pan, as the creme isn’t set.

Melty cake is never a positive.

In the end, James takes home the gold in yet another technical, with a perfectly risen sponge and a nicely set creme patissiere. 

That does look pretty celebratory.

***

It was time for the grand unveiling of my own cake. Would my thin cakes and lumpy creme prove to be my downfall?

First, here’s Mary’s perfect Fraisier:

And here’s mine, complete with chocolate decor:

You can definitely see that the creme isn’t the perfect smooth texture, and my bottom cake especially is a little narrow. But maybe it’s not quite so far off? As always, my judges would be the final arbiters. 

***

Matt’s Review: I get the sense that, as time goes on, the bakes are getting harder and harder to transport. So upon Jenna’s arrival I was already impressed that the cake was holding together as well as it did. And that turned out to be important, because the pairing of the layers was the key to this one. I’m always impressed when a food can take a flavor I normally don’t like and recontextualize it in such a way that I become a fan. In this case, that flavor is almond. I really struggle with that flavor normally, and this bake doesn’t disguise it at all. Instead, it pairs it perfectly with the other layers. I think Jenna did an excellent job with all the ratios — this could easily have become a “dislike” for me, but instead it was a joy to eat. All in all, two thumbs up. The cake, and Jenna, made my quarantine a little sweeter. 

Wilson’s Review: Well, the consistency is a little off on the creme patissiere. That can be a bit tricky, but the cake is a bit flat, looks like something went wrong with the mixing. Really should be past those kind of errors by now. I like strawberries, and the chocolate added an element of richness that contrasted brilliantly. As for the sponge, while not the prettiest I’ve ever seen, it does taste good - nice and airy. Overall a nice treat for a mid summer snack, once one gets past the first impression.

***

Final Thoughts: The creme patissiere was definitely a bit eggy, which was less than ideal. But all in all, this cake tasted pretty good and looked pretty fancy. The cake layers still felt airy and yummy even though they were thin, and the fresh fruit made for a nice treat. I will absolutely need to practice my creme patissiere though, and remember to NEVER take my eye off the stove. Rookie mistake. 

[omniswords]

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 1

because we all really wanted smitten!Luka so I’m making it happen, PERIOD. slight AU? canon divergence? where Luka begins to frequent Tom & Sabine’s bakery when his sister needs a pick-me-up through her first year in university, and may or may not have a thing for the new girl at the register once summer vacation hits. and tweets about it.

(yes, i’m still working on La Joconde! only two parts left :( but i hadn’t posted any lukanette content in a Hot Minute and wanted to share a bit of what i’ve been working on. enjoy, loves!)

at T&S for mom and sister and oh god there’s a cute girl i’ve never seen at the register

Post.

i think she’s got flour on her nose, and she probably doesn’t even know it’s there, and she’s adorable

Post.

send help

Post.

That’s the magical thing about social media, isn’t it. The cool, casual, even bored expression you sport in a waiting room or on the subway is a master at hiding away every all-caps rant you swipe out with your thumb. At keeping every moment you want to scream, excited or outraged, under lock and key in your chest while your fingers do all the talking. At cementing the lines in your brow and your lips while you broadcast how much you’re Gay And Dyingggg—and yes, you really need the capitalization and those extra letters for the emphasis—over the image of a kitten falling asleep mid-meal. The viral-video echo of a child’s singing in a big-box store. The pretty girl in the coffee shop with the floral cloth headband, the nude lip, the grey eyes that stop you in your tracks and somehow always seem to meet yours whenever you Just So Happen to look up.

It’s those capital letters, you know. They really do wonders for emphasis. Emphasis.

In a city like Paris, the hundreds of thousands of people you could pass in a single day would never know the intimacies they could stumble upon by happenstance. The ones you choose to share with a few hundred strangers, friends across oceans or friends of friends who happened upon you or lovers of art the way you love art, because the distance and the screens make it safer.

In Paris, almost no one knows who Luka really is, aside from a blue-haired busker downtown who sometimes frequents coffee shop stages. Or some guy who delivers their evening meals when they don’t feel like cooking. No one has to know. And he’s been fine with that for as long as he’s had these accounts.

He wouldn’t call himself a stranger to the internet. He hardly could; he’s a product of it, raised by it, like most anyone else his age. Frankly, he could go so far as to call it his third best friend—third, because his sister and his mother might fight him for not putting them first, and because he values them enough to put them there. But on the metro, he’s near invisible, and online, he’s Sort Of Someone. A set of hands and a guitar and strings of notes to pull in a few hundred admirers, and even fewer friends he’s never met in person. He doesn’t have to, he’s decided, for them to mean something.

And he’s getting the keen sense that they’re all already hanging onto his last three tweets. Or will be, if they’re not already awake yet. (He’ll never understand that—his body almost never lets him sleep in past eight, no matter how late he goes to bed.)

He has to gather himself before he goes in—which is hilarious, because he must have been to Tom and Sabine’s bakery at least a hundred times by now. Or at least, enough times that they know him by name and to save him a napoleon or two whenever he’s in the area. Is it really that difficult this time because of a girl?

And then she… whoever she is, she smiles at a customer, and it looks like utter sunshine, and almost instantly he wishes she were smiling at him. Just for a few seconds.

Yep. It really is that difficult.

With a flip of his stomach and one last post—all right, prayer circle before i place this order—Luka pushes into the tiny bakery just as the customer is coming out. He shuffles among the racks and display cases as though he’s in a museum, and given the care that goes into these decorations, he might as well be. Usually it’s Mrs. Cheng who’s at the register, humming along to some classical piece they’re playing overhead—it fits her, being so traditional—and there’s a stack of finished cake or pastry orders beside her on the counter. The orders are still there this time, but the music sounds younger; it must be one of those study playlists he sometimes finds online or touches upon when he needs some extra inspiration for his own music.

And there is the girl, with her chin in her hand and the flour still on her nose, absently twirling her pencil as she stares down at a sketchbook like she’s about to get into a fight with it. She doesn’t look bored there. Actually, Luka isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone so focused before, because even the bell over the door signaling his entrance apparently hasn’t gotten through to her. If anything, she looks like she’s toeing that impossibly thin line between mellow and frustrated, if the quirk in her lips or the pinch in her brow is anything to go by. Even from a distance, he can tell that her face is soft, that her lashes are beautifully long, and that she probably barely has to do anything with them. If it weren’t so weird, or showy, or even creepy, he’d probably stop in his tracks at the door and watch. Try to make up a song about her, for her, on the spot.

Luka takes a deep breath, readjusts his gig bag on his shoulder, and takes a few quiet steps up to the register, still keeping his distance. It isn’t until he clears his throat that she looks up, and he’d swear that he’s never seen eyes so… so blue, before.

He’s never played a song this color before, and he wants to. Instantly.

Before he can get a closer look at the sketches, one that would have been entirely inadvertent, the girl squeaks and snaps her book shut, immediately apologizing for not noticing him right away. Her fingers twitch a bit, but she smiles cordially in spite of them. There it is. That sunshine, just for him. “Welcome to Tom and Sabine’s. How can I help you?”

Luka wonders if that’s just her Customer Service Voice, or if she always sounds that sweet. Either way, somewhere inside him a cork pops, and warmth floods his insides, just for having heard it. Now that he’s this close, now that he’s really heard her, he’d think she’s only a couple of years younger than him. Nineteen or twenty, maybe. “Hi,” he says, as smooth as he can manage. Maybe it’s her first day; he knows some of the woes of customer service, even if most of his work experience has been in food delivery and not actually processing the orders. Maybe he can ease some of her nerves. “I was wondering if I could get something to go.”

“Oh! Sure thing.” The girl brushes some flyaway dark hair out of her eyes, twirls her pencil again, and taps a few colored squares on the tablet in front of her. “What can I get for you?”

“Let’s see…” He already knows the orders by heart, because in spite of their penchant for chaos and unpredictability, the Couffaines don’t mind anchoring themselves to some things. So much so, in fact, that if it were Mrs. Cheng at the register, she wouldn’t even have to ask. She’d already have the box ready. It’s just that he doesn’t want to overwhelm this girl right off the bat, even if he does have the feeling that she’d look even cuter with a blush. “An opera cake, a pear tart, a fraisier”—that’s for Rose, because he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still over when he gets back. He goes slowly, gives the girl the chance to look for each item in the menu on her screen before punching it in, just in case she’s ever had customers who were less kind.

Yes, that’s definitely the only reason why, and it definitely isn’t because he wants to spend more time at the register, and has that liberty to do so since there aren’t any other customers in the shop and since he’s done with work for the day.

“Anything else?” the girl asks, her voice slightly more clipped now that she’s in the rhythm of it. She cocks her head, more at the register, and quirks the edge of her eyebrow. Maybe she’s more seasoned at this than he thought. Or maybe she just sinks into this mood when she sets to work.

He kind of likes it. Like, a lot.

But that would be incredibly weird to say, to her face or about her online, so he holds his tongue. “Yeah, um…” He looks around, narrowing his eyes at some of the display cases. “Has Mr. Dupain made any napoleons today?”

The girl’s eyes light up a bit, which makes him smile. “I’ll check,” she says—chirps, more like—and flits toward the room in the back like a hummingbird.

Oh, no.

She’s so cute. Too cute.

She’s back in seconds, before he has the time to agonize about it any further. “Yup, we have them. How many would you like?”

“Just the one.” Luka’s already fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. He holds his breath, card in hand, pushes it into the chip reader. “Say, is Mrs. Cheng… doing all right?”

The girl blinks a couple of times. Is it really that weird to ask? “Yes…? She’s fine. She’s just traveling—she went home for a bit to see her family. She’ll be back in… three weeks?” She trips on her words a bit, not in the way that she can’t recall, but in the way that she doesn’t want to be too forward in her speech.

Huh. Mrs. Cheng didn’t mention anything about a trip the last time he’d been here… “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you around here before.”

The girl smiles faintly, tearing away his receipt once it’s printed. “Well. I guess that makes two of us.”

Oh, she’s good. He doesn’t even know what to say to that.

She flits around the tiny bakery, different pairs of tongs in hand as she assembles his order, and Luka finds himself tapping out the melody of the current song against his thigh. “Nice music,” he says to make conversation. “You pick it out?”

“Uh huh.” There’s that clipped tone again. “Sorry, I know it’s kinda basic—”

“It’s cool.” He pauses. “Uh. I mean, the music is cool.”

The girl looks up from one of the display cases. It might be the lighting, or the distortion of the glass, but he thinks she might be blushing. “You… said that already?”

“Right—right.” Luka clears his throat, leans back against the wall with his arms folded, and resolves to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down. He knows he’s blushing; his face is too hot for him not to be. She’s working, he tells himself. He can’t bother her while she’s working. Still, he can’t help idly tapping the toe of his shoe, or pressing his fingertips into his arms, to that same rhythm, the same melody. At least that keeps him grounded. He only wishes there were lyrics he could mouth along to to make it easier.

He’s about to dip into his own mind, try to find a song that would do the trick, when he hears his name. “Luka?”

Instantly, his head snaps up. The girl is back at the register, a beige box with a gold sticker in her hands, and she holds it out to him. “Yeah,” he says, doing his best to stroll casually to the front and take it from her. “How’d you know my name?”

The girl looks at him, half-confused, before mutely holding up the receipt. On the bottom, along with the last four digits of his debit card number, is his name in tiny capital letters.

Oh. Duh. He heaves a nervous laugh, and on the inside, he’s looking away with wide, mortified eyes. He takes the box from her; the sooner he gets out of here, the sooner he can kick himself. “Thanks. Could you tell Mr. Dupain I said hi?” And also, could you tell him how dare you for hiring a girl who has no right making my heart stop on her first day working?

She nods, twirling her pencil one last time, and Luka’s off with a wave and a mutual exchange of, Thank you, have a nice day! And the instant the door closes behind him and he turns the corner, he sets the box aside, slides down to a squat, and rests his face in his hands, eyes wide and trained on the ground.

In Paris, no one knows that Luka Couffaine is even capable of being an anxious, smitten fool.

Once he’s churned out as many anxious, shaky feelings as he can—once he’s replayed her smile and the sound of his name in his head enough times—he pulls out his phone.

god, i hope she has a nice day. i hope she finds twenty euros on the ground.

Post.

[hiromisuzukimicrojournal]

A Longer Trip Back Home

...

✽

Hey, have a cigarette?

She always asks me if I have a cigarette when she has emptied the last box. Of course I do not have it, she knows. My mother spends all her wages on cigarettes. My mother, a waitress at a café in the center of a suburban residential area at the edge of the world. In the afternoon, the café is filled with ladies. They are housewives coming from elegant houses at the edge of the world, killing time. Mother and the ladies play mah-jongg every Wednesday at the café, in the center of the town, where the smoke of cigarettes wafts stronger than the scent of coffee.

You must go straight home and study, Mother says, as a mother would.

I always stop by a used record store on my way home from high school. Music is the heart of my mind. Today, my favorite tune, “Running Away,” is playing in the store. The Raincoats’ version, not Sly & The Family Stone’s, which is actually called “Runnin’ Away.” I sing to the music.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

The vinyl collector is smiling wryly.

Delightful tune, but ironical lyrics, he says. I have a 30-year fixed-rate mortgage. I wonder how many more years I have to work. I want to sell this store and get away to San Francisco, the heart of the world. Why? You can see the ocean from the top of the hill. That is all.

His 11-year-old son, strangely mature, enters the conversation while listening near the cash register.

How about your boyfriend? No lover? If you are not in love yet, it is too late. But dad is too young for an affair.

The boy’s eyes twinkle with curiosity. There is a big Himalayan cedar in the back of the record store, and sometimes an owl appears on a branch. When I am staying in the store, forgetting time, I hear the owl tu–whit tu–whoo. A small river flows at the root of the cedar, and there is a small old church on the marsh.

When I was a child, a wedding was held by the side of this river. I was a bridesmaid, and the cedar was decorated like a Christmas tree. The guests carried an enormous red sea bream into the kitchen in preparation for the ceremony. My mother and the vinyl collector’s wife poached the eggs to a beautiful golden colour and boiled four dozen white asparagus as a side dish. On a Swedish glass dish in bas‐relief with dandelions, the butter slowly melted beside the radishes.

Yes. It was spring.

Someone knocked on the door of the kitchen. Ladies in aprons looked around. They thought the knock was the prank of a spring storm. But it was the bridegroom. He rushed to the kitchen sink and turned the tap to gulp down some water. An old woman named Eliza shouted to him from her house across the way.

Too late! The bride has gone somewhere! She is a wayward girl!

Too far! It took a million hours on a bus from Shibuya station! he joked, spouting water from his inflated mouth and soaking his bow tie. He was a chipmunk that came to this marsh on a gondola of chicory leaves.

The bride was beautiful. She was clinging to the cedar, and as she reached out to the star ornaments shining on the branches of the tree, a warm wind teased the hem of her champagne dress. Guests grew excited, little by little. The sky was getting dark. I was crouching alone on the bank of the river at dusk. The chipmunk ran away from the banquet and gave me a leftover chicory leaf like a tiny boat. The boat left my hand. The boat drifted on the river, far away.

Where does this river come from?　I questioned the bridegroom.

A mountain? I do not know. Ha! he answered.

Where does this river go to?

The river reflected the sunset. The chicory boat was floating freely on the water.

The sea? Ah, Tokyo Bay, the Pacific? Ha! Ha!

Tokyo Bay? Little did I know a small river in my small town flows into the infinite ocean. I had never seen the sea.

A girl in a swimsuit with a yellow floral pattern is swimming in a murky pool. Someone beckons her, seduces her. She becomes a little fish and approaches him trembling with fear. No. The girl dives in the ocean for the first time. Not the pool. A blowfish hides at the bottom of the sea. White round blowfish like clouds shine in the sunlight breaking through the faint waves. The blowfish has poison. She keeps swimming in pursuit of poison. A blowfish with white belly inflated does not move. Is he dead? As he opens his eyes slowly, he laughs, showing his teeth.

All of us have a place in history. Mine is in the clouds, he says *[1].

Dad! she cries with joy. Her father died a drunk at fifty years of age. Everyone says it was a slow-motion suicide. No. Certainly, he lives his life at the bottom of the sea, or as the shadow of a cloud floating on the surface of the ocean. There is a Japanese proverb: control poison with poison. Her father was fighting the evil in his mind with his own poison. She remembers his rounded back. Late at night, or on a Sunday afternoon, he headed to his desk with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and read the collection of poems. She cannot remember the titles of foreign books. The poems were written in English or French. The girl begins to swim toward the sun. Petals scattering from her swimsuit shine in the water. Like cherry blossoms dancing in a cloudy sky.

The memory of the wedding at the root of the Himalayan cedar raised for me the riddle of a small river in my small town. I decided to explore the headsprings and the destination of this flow. I bought a 1950s map of Tokyo at Jimbōchō. At the ward office, I found historical documents about Shibuya Ward. The map showed that the source of river was a marsh under the church. One more place. I found a pond on the site of an old mansion, the place I always see on my way to school. No one seemed to live there, and unmanaged trees grew thick behind the high wall. The map said Davies House. Once a British trading merchant lived here. Mr. Davies sold his mansion and returned home in the 1980s. During the Edo period, in the 1600s, it was a pleasure garden called Oyama-en. The garden was not a place for children to play. There were no merry-go-rounds, roller coasters or kiosks selling gelato. It was the place where poets gathered, in the gazebo at the pond. Intellectuals enjoyed tea and spent time meditating.

The gate of the abandoned mansion had been closed for about 40 years. One fine Sunday, I found out that the site of the mansion was open to Shibuya residents, but only for the day. The garden was already full of people strolling with flowers in their hands. The petals shine with droplets, because the night before was rainy. The faces of people are shining with curiosity. Not only the vines of feral trees but also the ferns are crawling at my feet. I have difficulty walking. In the deep green woods, a lacquered bridge is painted a particularly bright shade of red. I stand on the bridge. Under it, spring water bubbles in a dry pond.

A chipmunk of about 12 centimeters fills his cheeks with buds and jumps off the zelkova tree. The chipmunk is eating mock strawberries growing around the pond.

This is cute Fraisier de Duchesne. Mock Strawberry is also called poison strawberry, but it is not poisonous. Try it. Ha! the chipmunk says to me proudly and plays in the pond using the red fruit as a beach ball. The bright red strawberry slips through his fingers and is swallowed by invisible swirls on the water. It disappears into the drain of the pond. There is a river, a culvert, beyond the drain. It was buried in concrete beneath the Metropolitan Area when the Olympics were held in Tokyo in 1964.

Fraisier de Duchesne left itself to the water. Sunlight melted into the Kōhone-River. The water was warm. Kōhone Flowers–East Asian yellow water-lilies–surrounding the river were swaying gently in the wind. Leaves were floating on the surface. Fraisier de Duchesne came out of the darkness in the groundwater and bathed in the sunlight on a leaf. A little boy and his father held hands and passed by Fraisier de Duchesne. They were singing a song.

A small river in spring is flowing smoothly *[2]  

To violets and milk-vetch flowers on the shore

While flowering gently in beautiful colour

Bloom please, bloom, While whispering

Fraisier de Duchesne, pretty in red, has no poison and knows nothing about poison. It will leave itself to the stream of water and time as ever.    

I am standing on Inari-Bridge near the Shibuya Station. All rivers leading to this bridge are culverts. Buildings are towering on both sides of the bridge, a forest of department stores, restaurants, brothels. Shibuya River flows under the bridge. I can see the water with my eyes. The river passes through the downtown. Various people come and go. Various voices are confused with various languages. The clear stream has revived on the Shibuya River before the Tokyo Olympics in 2020. I am moved by the truth that there is a sea called Tokyo Bay, if I will swim about 6.8 kilometers from here. The orange colour of the sun floating on the Shibuya River is the same as it on the nameless small river in my small town. The murmur of a stream whispers.

Shall we run away to the ocean?      

I have forever heard it. The music was played repeatedly on a late-night program on the radio. Maybe it is a melody signaling that a passenger ship is leaving port but is not suitable for departure. Colourful flags on the mast are fluttering in the blue sky. On the surface of the sea, reversed flags shimmer like stained glass. Their shadows are waving to the pulse of engines. I recall that this was my favorite song while looking at the port far away. On my way home, on the bus, I am listening to “Runnin’ Away” on my mobile phone. Sly & The Family Stone’s version, not The Raincoats’, which is anyway called “Running Away.”

San Francisco is too far. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!  

Murmuring aloud, I can see from the window that the huge rain cloud chases the bus. The cloud seems to be as high as Montmartre. The front window of the bus is sprayed with heavy rain and becomes completely white. Lightning and the sudden shower cut off my music. The bus has no choice but to stop at the station square. The smell of rain invades. I hear footsteps of seasonal changes. I know that I was pretending not to notice the change of seasons. A mother and child in the seat across the aisle are talking.

We left our umbrella in grandma’s home, but it will clear up soon.

They are looking at brand new shoes they just bought at the department store. Desert boots which are made of suede. I wonder if they are trying to transport themselves by supernatural force to a desert planet 900 light years from the earth. There is no sea on the other side of the moon. I am thinking of the sea.

Yes. Summer will come soon.

✽

image: hiromi suzuki

…

*Quotations:

[1] The Tokyo-Montana Express, 1980 A collection of short stories by Richard Brautigan

[2] Small River in Spring, 1912 A song for schoolchildren Lyrics: Tatsuyuki Takano Music: Teiichi Okano (Translation: hiromi suzuki) Takano had his residence near the Kōhone-River (Yoyogi 3-chōme Shibuya-Ward, Tokyo) when he wrote the lyrics of Small River in Spring. At that time, Kōhone-River was running as a stream that supplied water to the fields, and joined the Shibuya River.

…

✽  ✽  ✽

A Longer Trip Back Home

© short fiction by hiromi suzuki

published in 3:AM Magazine (February 11, 2020)

 …

 via 3:AM Magazine

✽

I am grateful to have been given this opportunity by Mark de Silva, the Fiction Editor for 3:AM Magazine.

…

[melancholicvampires]

What kind of pastries would they eat?

Whoops, I wrote about what their favourite pastry is. Hope that’s alright!

Amalia: Porter Cake

Carmilla: mille-feuille with strawberries

Rebecca: everything (she does love fraisiers the most)

Enzio: sfogliatella (Adara gave him one, when he was a child)

Adara: sfogliatella

Dahlia: canelés

Célestin: opéra cake

Valère: none

Claude: croissants

[daeva-agas]

???????

I’m reading my old manga collection, and I just… realized how confusing this part is. Like… what does the author think “non-Japanese” strawberry shortcake looks like? The localization that I have even says “this is invented in Japan”, and I’m assuming something went wrong in the translation somewhere in my copy. The English is less WTF-inducing, but still confusing. 

The text makes it sound like the concept of cake, strawberry, and whipped cream being combined is the “Japanese way”, but as opposed to… what? Like, I get if they’re saying the presentation looks different, but otherwise the ingredients seem to be more or less the same? 

When I see “Western” strawberry shortcake recipes, the cake is usually “open” like this:

Whereas Japanese style strawberry shortcake tends to be coated with cream, like this:

Even then it’s not a rule, so it’s like. If ya gonna say there’s a difference, I KINDA WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S DIFFERENT?

ETA: Okay, so historically they’re different. But the guy was saying "I was just in France the other day, and they don't have this." Like... that sounded really weird. I thought there’s le fraisier, which does use sponge cake... Unless it don’t count because le fraisier doesn’t use whipped cream, but it used some sort of mousse for the filling...

[elliswriting]

Daisy Fraisier A to Z // jealousy

jealousy [ˈjeləsē] n: resentment against a rival, a person enjoying success or advantage, etc., or againstanother's success or advantage itself

  “Why him?” Erme wanted to know. “Daisy, you could sleep with any of the billions of mortals on this planet and get away with it, why does it have to be him?”   I laughed again. “Because it bothers you,” I stated matter-of-factly, the threat of tears subsided. I crossed my arms and looked up, meeting Erme’s flashing eyes. It wasn’t even true, and I was sure they knew it, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t sting. “And it’ll bother Hades, and Seth, and Ares, and maybe your whole damn pantheon.”

Ask to be added/removed/only tagged in certain posts/challenges/WIPs

General/WIPs Tag: @alessia-writes @jess---writes @kaigods @mastery-in-procrastination @abalonetea @the-real-rg @testblog0220737 @lookslikechill

Writeblr A-Z Challenge Tag: @kaycha1989 @confunderewrites @hannahs-creations @cvrmillas @phoenix-the-write-thing

[ladytemeraire]

Fraisier and Religieuse, pretty please! :D

Fraisier: What is your personal style?

I would say somewhere between “Gondor/Elven ranger” and “femme-ish” depending on the outfit, lol. It kind of varies day to day but my favorite casual outfits are tunic tops with wide belts over comfy skinny pants and boots. Deep jewel tones and earth tones make up the majority of my clothes; I own a ridiculous number of green tops and a marginally less ridiculous number of burgundy or berry tops.

I’m still trying to develop my “professional” style for work; it’s shifting as I mature and get into more of a leadership role, so I’ve started slowly replacing pieces of my wardrobe over the past year. I’m a big fan of belled or puffed sleeves on blouses and delicate or drapey fabrics with pretty prints or embroidery on them - something I can wear with either jeans or a pair of slacks, depending on what the situation calls for. (Not sheer fabric though, fuck the fashion industry’s overuse of sheer fabric requiring me to buy more layers.) I’m also really starting to enjoy playing around with different necklines; I’ve gotten a few tops with keyhole necklines recently that I love (and that have gotten me quite a few compliments).

I refuse to buy pants without pockets, both because I need easy access to things like chapstick and on basic principle.

Basically, I like looking feminine, but it’s not my top priority. What’s more important for me is clothes that I feel comfortable in, that look good on me, and that make me look and feel like I’m ready to Get Shit Done wherever I’m wearing them. If that makes sense.

Religieuse: Do you have any superstitions?

Not really! I’ll jokingly knock on wood when I talk about hoping something doesn’t go wrong, but I don’t really believe that it does anything. I also try not to wish ill of people, but that’s more of a personal morality thing than believing it’ll rebound or that my words will have any actual effect.

Also it’s not really a superstition, but I even though I joke about having a poltergeist I know probably 85% of those instances are just me being scatterbrained and forgetting where I put shit when I put it down instead of away. (The other 15%… well.)

Thanks for asking, these were fun to answer!

(Patisserie asks)

[softcoredarren]

Peach and strawberry!

Thanks !!!

peach: do you have any piercings or tattoos?

Nope :D. I love tattoos ... on other people. I had my ear pierced at 6, but I let it fill up

strawberry: favorite desserts?

Oh Tiramisu, orange cake my mom does, “Fraisier” (which would be butter cream and strawberry with a genoise), Catalane cream, “Crème brûlée”. Oh god there are soooo much