#i couldn’t remember if the recipe called for a diced or sliced onion so i was sort of doing both and it was an actual shitshow

[fingertipsmp3]

Does anyone else just like… not give a fuck if they’re chopping vegetables evenly

[bobateastay]

9 + wooyoung pls!!!!! hope ur well :)

9: "you deserved better than you got, someone's got to say it sometime because it's true."

jung wooyoung x gender neutral!reader

cw - angst(?), post-break up, food/cooking

word count: 2.2k

a/n: thank you for requesting!! i didn't use the phrase from the prompt word for word but i hope you'll enjoy this anyway!! i hope you're having a great day!! <3

Two carrots.

One tomato.

Half an onion.

Half a leek.

Three potatoes.

Two chicken breasts.

Three servings of noodles.

Wooyoung’s only made the recipe once before and yet he remembers it like the back of his hand. It’s almost funny, considering he can barely remember the phone numbers of people he calls every other day, but it’s only almost funny. He feels like he’s watching somebody else go about their tasks as he peels the carrots and cuts them into slices. Hands that aren’t his scoop them into the currently empty pot where they’ll wait patiently for the other vegetables and boiling water for the next twenty minutes or so. The bright orange against the silver of the pot makes Wooyoung long for a place he isn’t sure he’ll ever be again.

He peels the potatoes, carefully cutting out any spots where dirt has dug itself beneath the skin before he cuts them up as well and dumps them into the pot, followed by the tomatoes which he cuts into small cubes. They sit idly beside the carrots and some childish part of Wooyoung feels glad that the carrots won’t be so lonely anymore. The leek is easy to peel and chop up and Wooyoung is left only with the onion, which he’ll fry separately once it’s been diced into small pieces.

He pours water over the carrots, potatoes, tomatoes and leeks and sets the stove to the second highest heat before turning his attention to the onion. It’s not a huge amount of onion but Wooyoung is worried about it making him cry all the same. He sucks on his bottom lip as he raises the knife with steady hands, willing himself not to cry. The last time he made this recipe he had been crying before he even got to the onion. Tears had rolled down his cheeks all the while as he had prepared the carrots and the potatoes and the leek, and by the time he got around to dicing the onion his vision was so blurred that it was inevitable that he would slice his finger open along with the onion.

He’d sworn louder than was reasonable and for that moment he’d been loud enough that he couldn’t hear the shower running, couldn’t hear you in his bathroom hiding from the events that had taken place just minutes ago. He had pretended at that moment that the only thing wrong in his life was his sliced open finger and the stinging scent of onion lingering in his nostrils.

But this time he doesn’t have to pretend that things are okay - he’s learned to be more honest with himself than that - so he pauses each time tears well up in his eyes, tilts his head backwards and breathes deeply until his vision is clear again. He manages to dice the onion without hurting himself, listening to the shower running as he does so.

He puts the onion in the frying pan sitting on the back burner and moves his attention to the chicken. This part is a little gross but he gets through it anyway, cutting the chicken into cubes and setting it aside to wash his hands. When he turns off the tap and goes to dry his hands, he notices that the shower isn’t running anymore. He takes a deep breath and focuses his attention on cooking again.

He finds that he’s almost out of olive oil and is thankful that he hasn’t run out. Last time he cooked this dish there’d been nothing more than a drop left in the bottle and he’d resorted to mixing the olive oil with sunflower oil. He isn’t sure that something like that would make as much of a difference as he had been scared of at the time. At the time, picking up the bottle of sunflower oil had felt like it was the same as admitting defeat. It was the same as admitting that you really were moving out of the apartment that he’d known to be yours for as long as he could remember - the same as admitting that he’d let you slip through his fingers without even noticing until you told him that you couldn’t stay anymore. Wooyoung inhales a shaky breath and reaches past the bottle of sunflower oil to pick up the stock cubes and chilli flakes and pepper grinder. He won’t have to admit defeat today.

He sets everything down on the counter aside from the olive oil, which he opens so that he can pour some of it into the frying pan. He adds a stock cube and turns on the heat, pushing the stock cube around the oil and onions until it comes apart in the oil. He uses a knife to add the chicken to the pan before he sets the chopping board in the sink. The water has started to boil in the pot and he checks the time on his phone and reminds himself to keep an eye on the pot.

He knows that from now on the recipe will move quicker than he expects, no matter how prepared he is. Even with everything set out beside him, it’ll feel like a scramble to grab everything and put it in the pan on time. It’ll be just like the end of your relationship with him, now that he thinks about it.

He had everything right in front of him - your apartment a ten minute walk from his, your bright smile to greet him every time the two of you met, extensive knowledge on the things you loved and opportunity after opportunity to remind you that he was glad he had you in his life. But it was at the end that he began scrambling for things, only to realise that it was too late. He was grabbing at missed anniversaries and constant cancellations and absent acknowledgements of everything you did for him, trying to throw them all in the pan at once in an attempt to convince himself that he could still make it work.

Things will be different now.

He uses a fork to push the chicken around the pan before adding the pepper and chilli flakes over it, pushing it around a little more and repeating the process to make sure he gets the pepper and chilli flakes all over it. He checks the time and sets the spices down in favour of unwrapping two stock cubes, adding them to the pot of boiling water. He still has to add olive oil and lemon juice, but he’ll leave those to the end. Last time he’d added them all at once and the taste hadn’t been exactly what it was supposed to be. Not that either of you had been able to tell, struggling to swallow the soup around the heavy words that had been said by both of you. In all honesty Wooyoung doesn’t remember much of what he said. He remembers what you said, though.

“You don’t even text me. Have you checked our chats? You haven’t thought to text me first for months now, Wooyoung.”

It hurt to hear that. It hurt more than it would have hurt if you had just insulted him. It hurt more than it would have done if you had thrown the food in his face and stormed off without so much as another word. But you hadn’t done that, because you’d always been good to him. You had told him you were moving out of your apartment to another part of the city and you had told him about all of the things he’d done - or, more accurately, about all of the things he hadn’t done - for the better part of a year now.

Wooyoung hadn’t known what to do. So he’d invited you to stay for dinner. You’d showered and he’d cooked and the two of you had eaten together. It all felt very grim. The term ‘the last supper’ had rang in Wooyoung’s mind a few times while he watched you chew on chicken and noodles with your eyes glossed over as though you weren’t really sitting at his dining table at all but stuck somewhere else.

This time won’t be like that. He’ll add the lemon juice at the end and the soup will taste right and your eyes will be clear and bright. Things will be different now, because Wooyoung is doing things right this time. He’s going to add the right ingredients at the right time. He won’t leave it until it’s too late.

He pushes the chicken around the pan once more, making sure all of the pieces flip over so that it gets cooked evenly. He’s so focused on making sure that he gets it all right that he doesn’t hear you come into the kitchen until you’re beside him, peering into the frying pan and pot of soup. He startles but he doesn’t cry out or swear. He has to earn privileges like that if he ever wants things to go back to how they used to be, so he bites his tongue and stays quiet.

“Hey,” you say, offering him a cautious smile. He smiles back, no doubt mirroring your own hesitant expression.

“Hey,” he replies. A silence settles between you both after that and not long after you move away from Wooyoung’s side and begin to gather things to set the table for both of you. Wooyoung adds the noodles to the soup and mixes it cautiously, watching as they soften and come apart in the liquid. “Thank you for coming over.”

There’s no answer for a little while and Wooyoung worries that maybe he’s overstepped, but then your voice fills his kitchen and the feeling that blooms in his chest is so warm that he worries he might melt on the spot.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say. Your voice is soft. It’s careful, and beneath all of that care there’s also hurt. Wooyoung wonders if even after all these months the pain is still just as raw as it was on day one. He knows that it hasn’t gotten much better for him. “I couldn’t miss Jung Wooyoung’s famous cooking after all.”

Wooyoung smiles at the sound of the joke and turns off the heat for the chicken. He stares at the pan. Something is missing. He racks his brain to figure out what it is, narrowing his eyes at the pan when nothing comes to mind. He bites the inside of his cheek. No, it can’t be like this. He’s supposed to get everything right this time. He shouldn’t be reaching for things last minute. That’s not how things are supposed to go this time.

“Hey.”

Wooyoung turns his head to find you reaching into one of his cupboards. Your hand emerges and you hold out a jar to him, a small smile on your lips.

“Hoisin sauce,” you say simply. Wooyoung’s mouth drops open slightly in surprise but he doesn’t let that get in the way of the cooking. He takes the jar and opens it quickly, pouring a good amount of the sauce into the pan before he turns on the heat again.

“Thank you,” he says, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. You just nod and stand beside him as he turns off the heat for the soup, pushing the chicken around the sauce in the pan. Really the chicken is already done but Wooyoung wants to say something. He can’t tell exactly what it is so he lets it simmer in his chest while he works the words out in his head.

“I think it’s done,” you tell him. He nods, giving the chicken one last push before he turns off the heat. There’s nothing to do after that and Wooyoung can’t help but feel shocked that he managed to finish the recipe without anything going wrong. It’s true that he needed your help for one part of it but he supposes he’s always relied on you a little. He was just too selfish to notice it before.

“Hey, I uh-” he starts, hating the way the words get choked up in his throat. You’re watching him and your eyes are the pressure of an audience of thousands. He swallows dryly and pushes through. “You deserved better than what I gave you. I know other people have probably told you before but I wanted to tell you myself. You deserved way better.”

You don’t say anything and Wooyoung feels his stomach churn, worrying that he might have ruined this dinner with his raw words. He inhales deeply, feeling his hands shake as he moves to pick up the lemon juice and add it to the pot of soup, followed closely by olive oil. It’s only when he’s finished serving soup into two bowls that you finally speak up.

“I know,” you say. It’s a short statement and although it’s not particularly comforting a wave of relief washes over Wooyoung at the sound of you saying anything at all. “Maybe things can be better this time. Way better.”

Wooyoung nods.

“Yeah,” is all he replies, scared that saying anything more will jinx it.

In the end the soup tastes perfect, as does the chicken. Wooyoung isn’t sure how much of it has to do with the way he cooked it and how much of it is to do with your presence in his apartment after months of absence, but he’s not sure that it matters much either.

☆⌒

taglist: @lovely-ateez @sunsethw4 @seonghwanotes @xirenex @bcbataro @peanutpmingib @sannierio @ateezinmymind @demonmatz @fallinforwoo @tohokuu

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 150

I think for the time being, I am going to quit calling myself ‘late’ posting as long as I get the chapter up on the right day of the week *facepalm*.  Bc I am barely keeping ahead, much less remembering to queue things up.

I am so, so sorry about that....

Fair warning before anyone @s me: The French is a joke, so if I got it super wrong I am equally sorry to the degree of which it’s wrong.

Unless it’s obscene. Then I want to know so that I can laugh with you, and I am LEAVING IT.

As always, shouts out to @baelpenrose, @the-raven-fae, and @charlylimph-blog!

Heaving an enormous Dutch oven onto a burner, I turned on the heat low and started chopping vegetables. After the first celery stalk, I glanced up at Derek, who sat across from Maverick in our living room.  The quarters were shaped differently, which had distressed Derek initially, but the addition of his favorite blankets to the sofa had helped.  Currently, he was completely distracted from even Mac: staring off into space, his fingers flying and flicking with a feverish, almost convulsive movement.

Maverick glanced up at me with a smile before following my gaze. “Yep, the cyber siege continues.  He’s doing well, from what Zach told me.”

“I thought he was only supposed to attack human-managed systems,” I grumbled, thinking back to the cold shower I had been subjected to that morning. Turning back to the vegetables, I made short work of the celery before taking my frustration out on the carrots. Scooping the diced vegetables into a bowl, I started measuring out paprika, sugar, salt, pepper, basil, and oregano into another bowl.  “Where’s Sam, by the way?”

“On the way,” Maverick promised. “With Terran-style tomatoes, he swears.  And Derek is only attacking systems we manage.  When BioLab 2 was set up, we had to take over water management, to protect the lab from any sort of contamination.”

The knife in my hand, brandished at three cloves of garlic, clattered to the work surface. “Seriously?” I glared at the tap, suddenly suspicious.

“Probably get water from the console,” he winced, nodding briskly at Derek, who nodded in confirmation without stopping his tapping and flicking gestures.

Groaning, I shook my head and crushed the garlic, removed the skin, and started mincing. All that was left was to wait on the tomatoes from Sam.  The garlic was potent enough, and I wanted to avoid cutting any onion until absolutely necessary since Derek was clearly parked for the duration.

I was saved about fifteen minutes later when Conor and Sam stopped at the door.  Sam waved cheerfully and held up the requested vegetables while Conor removed his boots. A quick shuffle later for Sam to remove his own shoes, and both came to the food prep area - too small to be considered a proper kitchen - to greet me. 

First, Conor gave me a big, smelly hug and a kiss on my hair. “Did you already slice the bread?”

“Ew, you gorilla!” I laughed. “And I haven’t sliced any bread yet, I wasn’t sure how long I had and I didn’t want it to get too stale.”

“They’re toasties, love.” He shook his head with a grin before swatting me on the butt. “No one cares if the bread was a bit stale before you started.”

Over his shoulder, Derek’s head bobbed side to side. “I think someone disagrees.” I looked meaningfully past him.  To Conor’s credit, he looked sheepish.

Sam squeezed around and handed me the tomatoes and gave me a hug. “Thank you for making soup.”

“I know it’s our favorite,” I winked before shooing him out of the area. “Not enough room for more than one in the kitchen. Y’all go unwind out there, and make sure you warn Derek that I’m about to start cutting onions.”

As he held up his hands and jokingly scurried away, I turned to the stove and started cursing myself. I’d forgotten to start boiling water. Snagging a small saucepan, I got a carafe of water from the console and started rectifying that, tossing in a generous pinch of salt.  Gently, I cut an X into the bottom of each tomato and set them aside before peeling and dicing the onion.  Immediately, the onion, carrots, and celery went into a food processor.  “Derek, I’m about to be loud,” I called softly before counting to ten to give him time to cover his ears or step into the corridor.  A quick blitz later, the vegetables were perfectly between a mince and a puree.

A quick swizzle of oil went into the already-hot dutch oven before adding the mirepoix and giving it a quick stir. As if on cue, Tyche and Antoine breezed through the door, noses twitching.

“I smell food,” she announced, stalking into the kitchen.  One look at the ingredients was all it took. “Ooooo you’re making the tomato soup.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I am, and you know I don’t have room in here for spectators, unfortunately.” Arching an eyebrow, I pointed the spoon in my hand at the table.

She wasn’t having it. “One of these days, you’re going to show me how to make that. May as well be today.”

“Nice try, but I need some secrets. Besides, the longer I argue with you, the more likely the vegetables are going to scorch. Scoot!”

She scrunched her face at me but acquiesced. As I scooped the garlic into the pot, I heard her change topics. “How much longer is the stress test? My music keeps getting mixed up with Antoine’s. I don’t mind it, but…”

Antoine smiled softly and shook his head. “But it is quite a shock to expect classical music and instead her rock starts playing.”

Personally, I liked both, but still shuddered at what he was talking about. Carefully lowering three of the tomatoes into the now-boiling water, I glanced at the sauteing vegetables and gave them a quick stir to check. “We have about six more days before the repairs start, maybe four more after that?”

Conor sighed. “I wish we could ask if anything important was being hacked, not just annoying environmental controls.”

“Plants aren’t dead yet,” Sam pointed out, tipping his bottle of water toward Conor in a practiced gesture.  Everyone laughed when, rather than being reassured, Conor leapt to his feet to check on his ‘babies’ in the room.

Cursing, I dipped the tomatoes out of the boiling water and dropped them immediately into an ice bath.  A couple pokes with my trusty spoon showed they weren’t overcooked, thankfully. “None of my information for work has been acting up,” I admitted as I started peeling them. “But Pranav advised that more critical data would either go completely missing or not show any signs of infiltration.  We won’t know until after the test is over.”

“Lovely,” Tyche drawled as she watched Conor fretting over the plants. “So it’s all or nothing.”

I shrugged and dumped the tomato paste - admittedly, from the console - into the pan of other vegetables.  When I stirred, I was satisfied that the carrots, onion, and celery had cooked down to where they were soft. “In a weird way, it makes sense. They’re testing for catastrophic data breaches, which would pull everything down, or for data theft, which you wouldn’t want to leave traces of.”

The corner of Antoine’s mouth quirked up as I dropped three more tomatoes into the pan of boiling water. “No hidden boba tea this time, that is reassuring.”

Hands still moving without hesitation, Derek whipped his head toward Antoine, paused, and turned back to where he had been staring. Derek’s version of a glare.

“That was Charly,” I responded in unexpected unison with Maverick and Conor.  I smirked while dumping the already-peeled tomatoes into the processor with another pinch of salt. “Seriously, Derek had nothing to do with that other than divine retribution.” I paused for a moment. “Although I do have to admit that the cold showers do seem to track with what Charly reported.”

That only got a shrug from Derek, which was as good as an admission.

The conversation shifted again - something Conor and Sam were working on in the aeroponics labs that I had already heard multiple details on, plus repetition.  Tuning it out, I pulled out the last three tomatoes, dropped them in the ice bath, and took a platter with a loaf of bread, sliced cheese, and butter out to the table. “Mav, can you start setting up the sandwiches?”

He went to stand, but Tyche shooed him back down. “I got it. She may not let me help make the soup on this one, but I can prep a grilled cheese with the best.” Staring me in the eye, she started cutting slices from the loaf defiantly.

I just laughed it off. This was the only tomato soup either of us liked, and she had been chasing me for the recipe for ages.  It had become a running joke at this point, so without hesitation, I moved back to the food prep area, peeled the remaining tomatoes, and gave another warning that I was going to be loud.  Some more blitzing later, the now-pureed tomatoes went into the pan of veggies along with the spices I had already measured out, the juice from one lemon, and enough water to fill the pan three-quarters full.  Leaving that to boil, I moved the boiling water off the stove and swapped it for a grill-pan.

“Sophie!” Conor cried from the armchair where he perched. “You’ve seen the plants we’re growing in the lab! Tell them we’ve managed a crop of roots!”

I winced. “Jury’s out… I’m not sure how aeroponic potatoes are going to turn out, but I can confirm they are in the process of finding out?”

Tyche’s knife fell to the table, and she moved her mouth silently in a very accurate imitation of a fish before managing to sputter. “Air-grown… potatoes?”

The confusion on Antoine’s face was painful to look at. He started to speak before stopping himself and instead pulling up his datapad, jotting a message, and flicking it out to the room.

When I read the message, the confusion was so clear that I hurt my sinuses snorting. Des pomme de terre en l’air? Pommes aeriennes? Talk about being lost in translation…. “Conor, Sam… I think Antoine has the perfect name for those if they work out. Just sayin’”

Tyche snorted and shook her head before handing me the platter, with a stack of perfectly buttered bread, two slices of cheese between every other slice of bread.  The soup had just come to a simmer, so I was stirring intently and just nodded for her to start grilling sandwiches.  Several appreciative sniffs and twenty minutes later, six bowls of soup and six matching sandwiches - three cut vertically and three cut diagonally, because it mattered and was not a battle I was willing to fight - hit the table.  Tyche politely placed the salt cellar and a pepper grinder on the table, although the glare she dished out to the collected group promised strong retaliation to anyone who touched them.

I held up half of my grilled cheese in a mock-toast. “To soup night!”

“To air potato soup, soon!” Maverick offered up with a grin, only for everyone to echo his sentiment with the exception of Derek - who just held up half of his sandwich with one hand and tapped away with the other, not even relenting to eat.

Frankly, as long as he spared a hand to eat, I couldn’t bring myself to care.  He took these tests very seriously, and generally only stopped when he was completely asleep.

Everyone dug in, but it was only after my first spoonful that I spoke up. “Considering how long it took to make sure the tomatoes wouldn’t be poisonous, I’m not sure the potatoes will be ready before we get to Von.”

Conor and Sam nodded, as did Tyche and Antoine, but Maverick stopped with his bowl halfway to his mouth.  Setting it down gently, he angled his head. “What do you mean, poisonous?”

“They’re nightshades,” Conor told him, as calmly as if he was telling us that water was wet. “Tomatoes are the only edible berries of that family, and potatoes are the only edible tubers, so we have to be extra careful.”

Maverick’s eyes grew wide and turned toward his soup. Tyche just reached out and patted his hand. “You’ve eaten this soup for years, and you love tomatoes. They’re safe, I swear.  And Sam won’t let Sophia near the new ones until he’s completely sure they’ll be okay to eat.”

Sam nodded, shoving a soup-covered wedge into his mouth. “We’re growing them in simulated Von-light, hoping that keeps the roots from creating chlorophyll.  If we’re wrong, there’s a forty-three-point-six percent chance they won’t grow at all, ten-point-five percent chance they will give you a stomach ache, eighteen-point-four percent they won’t taste good, and twenty-seven-point-five percent they will taste good and be safe to eat at the same time.”

“Meaning they won’t kill you, you might get a tummy ache, but most likely for this generation, they just won’t grow,” Conor translated.

“Hang on,” I held up my spoon. “What kind of stomachache are we talking here?”

The mad botanists looked at each other and made a few thoughtful faces. Finally, Conor nodded and Sam spoke. “Unripe apples,” he stated flatly. “But just unripe apples.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad,” I shrugged and crunched into my sandwich.

Derek finished his half-sandwich and blindly reached for another. He had it halfway to his mouth before he looked at it and dropped it back to the plate in alarm. You would have thought it tried to bite him rather than vice versa.

Antoine shook his head and reached past the vertically cut sandwich Derek had dropped and delicately handed him a diagonally cut one. “Here you go, friend.”

Glaring at the sandwich like it may betray him, he bit it viciously before going back to the screen he could only see in his mind, seemingly satisfied that the sandwich would not change into the offending shape.

I told you, it matters.

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[lucastheunlucky]

Ease of Learning - Orion&Luke

Summary: Orion accepts a part time job at Yum!Pizzeria and meets Luke! They make food together, learn how to prep for a restaurant, and find great enjoyment in each other’s company. @3starsquinn

Set up: [text] I’m in the kitchen, just come in and on through. Bring some knives if you have them, and wear rubber soled shoes. 

Lucas finally had help and he was probably a little too giddy about it. This week has been the nicest week he’s had since he was shot in the head. Almost five fucking years for him to have this, and to think people had such nice lives all the time. Lucas already had everything laid out, cleaned, and prepared, and to hopefully seal the deal with the trainee. He had taken the time to get a new white, chef’s shirt for them so it felt a little more official. It was completely a bribe, but he couldn’t help it. He could find help for the front, cashier, and waitress staff, but not in the kitchen because he always kept himself isolated. This was a huge step for Lucas. He sat down at the main station, writing out a new recipe he had worked on, not pizzeria related, but Lucas’ future fine dining restaurant that resides only in his head now. Soon. He had a photo on the wall now, a sketch of the new concept. Eventually this place will be truly his dream.

Orion only owned hunting knives, and he only kept them begrudgingly just in case the situation were to ever arise that they were needed. Luckily, Ricky was into cooking and owned some pretty decent knives, which Rio was able to borrow for the evening. He had been inside the pizza places for more times than he could keep track of. It was a local favorite and the best pizza place in town. Rio didn’t have a ton of experience with actual cooking, which made this position a bit more ideal for Rio’s situation. Pretty much the only thing his family had employed him to help with when it came to cooking was prep work.  It wasn’t exactly a surprise that Rio was the most detail oriented and meticulous of the Quinn family. Plus, he had good reflexes, like supernatural reflexes. He got to the door to the restaurant and knocked at it, spotting who he assumed would be his boss through the window and waving towards him. It wasn’t until the door opened that the tingling sensation shot through Rio’s body. There was a werewolf, somewhere around here. His tried to focus his hearing out for a moment, to see if he felt anybody around the place. But all he could sense was Lucas, opening the door to let Rio in. A giddy smile broke out across Rio’s face. He could only imagine the meltdown his parents would have had if they knew that he was working for a werewolf. A werewolf! Amazing. Rio happily held his hand out as an introduction. “Hey there! It’s Orion. Or Rio. Whichever you prefer. I’ve probably said this a million times already, but I really appreciate this, I can’t wait to get started.”

Lucas felt the enthusiasm immediately, and fed off of it to ease any concern. The other was a handsome younger man, with bright eyes, and Lucas felt a slight pang at how the youth held this special kind of energy. One, he probably wouldn’t have anymore now that he was in his thirties. Lucas shook his hand with a firm grip, palms rough. “Come on--” he chuckled, walking him into the pizzeria, and back in through the kitchen doors. Not a lot of people have seen this area, and Orion, well-- he will be the first person ever to work next to Lucas in the kitchen. It was a strange feeling, to let someone else into his space, but Lucas was trying with everything he had, to not let this hunter have so much control over his life. And in here, his pizzeria now that the deed was transferred-- he wanted to make a work family. “The kitchen is simple in design, we cook in a stone oven, but he have gas ovens as well for other things, that’s a smoker for the meats, and all the prep gets put in here,” he hulled open a large fridge where a bunch of empty containers usually filled with ingredients. “You know how the menu works, since I change it every day, you will have a different prep list. Which is nice, it shakes it up. So,” he pulled out the chef’s shirt and waved it between them. “Put this on, and let me see how you cut an onion.”

It was a bit surreal, following his boss behind the counter and following him to a portion of the pizza place that he had never seen before. After spending so long at the counter ordering, it seemed weird to walk behind the counter. Or maybe the weird part was that he had never had a job before and this was all new to him. Either way, it was a mixture of excitement and nerves. He nodded, familiar with the new choices every day. It was pretty easy to tell how passionate Lucas was about the place, which could only be a good thing. When Lucas pulled the chef shirt free, Orion was so excited for the chef shirt until he realized that the chef shirt was short sleeved, which meant… Oh boy. He couldn’t not wear it, right? That probably wasn’t an option. Rio stood there for a moment long before grabbing it and slipping it over his long sleeve shirt. He sighed, rolling his sleeves up to the sleeve of the chef shirt, exposing a string of scars and bruises along his arms. He immediately jumped into washing his hands and pulling one of the knives that he borrowed from Ricky out to cut the onion, hoping that they would not talk about the scars or bruises and just focus on the prepping. “So, uh my friend taught me that we cut off both ends and then cut the onion in half, take the skin off.” He spoke aloud and did the motions as he said them, trying to remember what Ricky had done while cutting them. “Once you have it in half you can just kinda… chop it” He said, cutting sections from the onion into what looked like sort of a half moon shape. “You probably need it like chopped into tiny pieces, right?”

Lucas gave Orion some space, not wanting to be all up in his area quite yet. He noticed the scars, but Lucas was also a creature riddled with them. He hated when people looked at them or asked questions he couldn’t explain about them, so he just acknowledged how hard that motion might have been for Orion, and stood calmly, with that understanding without bringing it up. “That shirt makes it feel official right?” he chuckled to keep the mood light. “Well, first-- you should sharpen your knife.” Lucas had set him up for failure, but it was a good way to remember. “Always do that step first, so you don’t cut your fingers or squish the vegetables.” He pulled out his japanese blades, with beautiful orange handles, and sharpened it quickly. “You are close, from here, lay it like this and you want to aim for about half inch pieces of onion. Unless-- I call for strips which happens sometimes, especially with the bbq pizza’s. Chop down, take your time until you get the motions, hold your fingers like this so they don’t get caught. Then you can go faster--” Lucas showed the motions at a good pace on his own board, which was actually harder cause he does it so fast all the time. “This is called a small dice-- which vegetables do you think get cut up like this?” 

Orion glanced down at the shirt that Lucas had given him, “It really does. I feel pretty legit.” He smiled, thankful that his new boss hadn’t mentioned the scars. It was stupid of him to show them off anyways. “Right, right. Sorry. Of course that makes sense.” He sighed. Strike one he supposed. Though it didn’t seem to bother Lucas much. He had told Rio that he would train him how to do it properly. So this was training, and a nice, peaceful training at that. “Woah Those knives are really cool.” He stared at the design on the blades. He watched Lucas cutting the onions, clearly way more fluid than his parent had ever been with a blade. Though they had never really claimed to be great cooks. “Got it. I can do that. I mean, I can do that with practice.” Luckily for Rio, he was a pretty fast learner. “Uh..” Rio tapped his fingers against the cutting board to think of what a pizza place would use for small cuts. “Onions, obviously. Peppers, probably. Maybe like tomatoes, if you add any in your pizzas. Something like that?” 

“You will get it quick, don’t worry,” Lucas smiled about the knives, they were very special to him. “They are neat right? I worked years to get a legitimate set. There are a lot of knockoffs on the market.” Lucas nodded to the few he said, and pulled out a plate that had all of them cut correctly in the varying ways he liked on a beautiful spread. “Most are sliced-- mushrooms, banana peppers, jalapeno’s, the ones cut down the side like those. Then you have the smallest, minced. That, you won’t do for a while cause it’s the hardest. But, if you practice these other cuts, I’ll show you and you can practice at home. So, using that plate as a guide-- lets prep for tomorrow.” He quickly pulled over the menu, laying it out between them. “We are doing three pizza’s, see what we need? I always label it well. Lets just get some practice in, don’t worry about making it perfect. I’ll do it with you, and if you don’t know just ask alright?.” Lucas tied an apron on, and cracked his knuckles, and got to work. 

Orion liked this. It was almost relaxing, in a way that cooking had never been for him before. But Lucas was a calming presence. Patient and warm, it was a welcome change. Lucas showed off exactly what the cuts were supposed to look at and Orion tried studying each one, hoping that just staring at them long enough would make it stick in his brain. It worked for books. “Perfect. My roommate loves to cook, I’ll make sure to help prep. Get some good practice in.” Despite Lucas telling Rio not to worry about it being perfect, Rio knew that he was going to worry about it. He had always been a perfectionist. But this was the new Rio. The one that didn’t bother with the Quinn name. He could be more chill now. The new and improved Rio. He looked at the menu, “Well this sounds amazing.” Rio laughed. Maybe he’d need to stop by and pick some up for himself and his roommates. “Definitely. Please just yell at me if I’m doing anything wrong.” He joked, jumping into it as well to get started on the prepping.

For the first time in almost five years, the sound of two knives against cutting boards echoed in the kitchen. It warmed Lucas’ entire soul, in a comforting and familiar way that he used to cook in the kitchen with his family before he went into hiding. He knew, all along, he wanted this feeling back, almost desperately, but always fear hid in the back of his mind. Luring him to be hesitant. The man who captured him, tortured him-- didn’t have to infect this place. His pizzeria, and maybe in the future, something more fine in nature. He paused Rio a few times to correct how he was holding the knife, pulling his hand back on it, or fixing the rocking of the blade, but Lucas could see that the other had some kind of experience holding a blade, maybe just not cooking ones. Lucas cleaned his knives, and watched the other work for a few minutes, cherishing the moment-- hoping, he’d like it here. A soft smile twitched his lips. “Two hours have gone by ya know--” he said with a knowing sound. “Set an alarm when you are here, time-- flies when you prep, especially while alone. How are you feeling about it?” Lucas pulled out a slab of bacon, slicing down thin pieces. “You hungry? Cause for some reason, I want breakfast right now.” 

Orion fell into an easy groove working next to Lucas. Every now and again Lucas would help readjust his grip on the knife or show him some trick to make the cutting easier, but it was always done with good spirits and with the best of intentions. It honestly didn’t really even feel like work. When Lucas mentioned that two hours had already gone by, Rio barely believed it. “Seriously? Woah. I didn’t even notice.” He shrugged. “I feel great. Like this is too good to be true.” Rio definitely didn’t consider himself lucky enough to deserve this. He had been so nervous about starting to work that he had practically spiraled once he accepted Lucas’ offer and Erin’s. But both places seemed really cool. “Holy crap, really? I’m always starving. Like, all the time. This is amazing.” He bounced excitedly, a grin plastered on his face. “What can I do to help?”

“Haha, same-- same,” Lucas suggested, both because he’s hungry, but also to see how Rio would do with orders shooting at him. That’s if he eventually wanted to tackle the kitchen while open then doing prep. He pointed towards the cast iron skillets. “Turn the gas on the stove to high flame, get that pan hot for me.” He sliced down the large piece of meat to create a stack of bacon for them, tossing it onto a plate, and brought it over to the stove. “If you look in the walk in fridge, there are eggs in there, and cheese of course,” Lucas couldn’t help it, he loved cheese sprinkled on his eggs since he was a little boy. The pan heated up quick, and Lucas put the bacon in it, the sizzle immediate. He flipped on the hood, the smoke traveling up and out of the small space, and smell-- it was already to die for. “Crack those eggs for us, put them all in a bowl. I can eat six eggs-- if you can believe it. Haha. I haven't had dinner yet, so it needs to stick. Cube some butter from there,” he pointed, “and dice up some scallions. Don’t salt anything yet--” 

Hoping not too screw anything up, Orion made a mental list of what he needed to do. He started with the oven, flipping it on high and grabbing a pan to start heating it up. He then slid over to the ginormous fridge and slid inside of it, searching around for a long minute until he hunted down the eggs and cheese, grabbing a carton of eggs and a few separate bags of cheese, “I wasn’t sure which kind of cheese you preferred so I grabbed… all of it. I can eat literally anything.” He set the eggs and cheese down on one of the counters and took in the smell of the bacon. Amazing. He laughed at Lucas, popping the carton of eggs open and pulling eggs out one at a time, cracking them into the bowl and putting the empty shell back into the carton for the moment. He wondered if large appetites came with Werewolf territory? Hunters tended to have a bigger appetite than regular humans, because they had to give energy for the heightened senses and strength. It was only logical that werewolves would be similar. After cracking all the eggs, he hunted down the butter next, starting to cube it before asking, “How much should I cut? Like a whole stick?  He probably should know something like that, if he was an actual adult that cooked ever. After he cut those, scallions would be next. “Do you cook here a lot on your own time too? Or do you have your own fancy set up where you live?”

“No, about four tablespoons or four decent slices,” Lucas peered over at Orion working hard, making sure everything was right, and taking the time to find the right ingredients. A blossom of pride filled the wolf, and a kind smile surfaced while he flipped the bacon in the cast iron. “Make sure you separate the tops and bottoms of the scallions.” He didn’t even peer over at the stuff being prepared, accepting however he did them in a show of trust. “I, heh,” Lucas never bragged or boasted about himself, he always got a little shy over stuff which is why in high school no one really knew he wasn’t just a football player, but also a huge science club nerd. “I actually have training in fine dining if you can believe it. I also have been studying authentic Chinese cuisine for about five years now. My home set up isn’t as nice as this, so I do tend to cook here if I can. I experiment a lot, I want to have a really nice place eventually.” He reached for the eggs, pushing the bacon to one side of the pan to let the fat heat and coat the pan before tossing the eggs in. With a pair of chopsticks he grabbed each cube of butter, folding it into the eggs as he broke the yolks and let it all cook in bacon fat with gentle motions to fold them into stacks. “Get a small pan, heat a little oil, and toss those white scallions into the pan, keep them moving so they don’t burn. Hey, those don’t look too bad.” He complimented on the scallions. “Then get plates, this will be one in two minutes.”

Orion followed the boss’ instructions for the butter and passed it off to him when he began working on the scallions. Unsure exactly what to do with them, he resorted to cheating a bit, if this were some sort of graded test at least. He pulled a video up on his phone, watching a few seconds of it before following them himself, cutting up some not perfect, but decent scallions. “Chinese cuisine?? That’s so cool! You know back in the Zhou dynasty rice was considered a luxury. It was insanely priced and only the richest classes could afford to eat it. It’s crazy to think about that, since rice is such a common staple in so many cultures nowadays.” He rattled off, immediately happy to have something to talk about. Even if it was nerdy. “I think it’s really cool that you have this space. It’s easy to tell how much you care about it.” Orion grabbed a small pan and took a minute to hunt down the oil, pouring it into the pan and setting it on the stovetop. “Thanks! Full disclosure, I totally googled it to find out how to cut them correctly.” He laughed, outing himself and finally tossing the scallions in the pan, pushing them around  in the pan. This was how people kept them from burning, right? After a minute, Rio followed Lucas’ directions and went to grab plates, “This smells amazing”

Lucas actually didn’t know that bit of information, and he’d have to remember it. “My neighbor has all these old family recipes, none of her family is here in the states, and she filled my head with them so they’d not be lost. If you really want some good cooking though, she is the one to stand next too, she’s got that grandma energy-- and love in all her food.” When he disclosed he googled it Lucas couldn’t even fault him. “I get it, just watch your phone in here, I have lost many of mine in a bowl of tomato sauce by accident.” Lucas placed the bacon, and eggs on the plates, taking the warm scallons to sprinkle on the side. The slices of the green parts of the scallions he mined quickly with his knife, then sprinkled it on top with a crackle of salt and pepper, and a dash of cayenne powder. “There,” he wiped the edges, and picked both plates up and moved them over to a table in the corner. Setting them down, he grabbed forks, and a water for them, and pulled his chef shirt off, tucking it on the back of the chair. He waited for Rio to sit before he did, and settled. “I’m sure you will be busy with everything, but know this place doesn’t need to be stressful. Even if you can only work two hours that’s enough to get me by. So-- thank you, for wanting to try it out.”

It looks like they had wrapped up for the night. Or at least to eat.Orion followed Lucas’ example, taking the chef shirt off and rolling his sleeves back down. He instantly felt better with his arms covered again. “Your neighbor sounds great, that’s nice of her to share the knowledge.” Obviously, Rio was a fan of sharing knowledge. He wasn’t sure who would major in history that didn’t like sharing information with others. Plus the whole Scribe thing. He slid into the empty chair at the table and took a long drink from the water. He had been so preoccupied with the prepping that he hadn’t even realized how thirsty he was. With the oven on, the place got pretty hot. “Of course. Well, again I really appreciate the flexibility. I want to help out as much as I can, and hopefully make your life a little easier.” It honestly seemed too good to be true. A boss that wanted him to work at his own pace and understood that he had a life outside of work. But this wasn’t the time for sappy admissions, it was food time. Rio used his fork to stab a large portion of the eggs and stuff them into his mouth. “Holy” He started saying, but stopped himself so he could finish chewing the food he had in his mouth. “This is amazing, holy crap. You’re like a food wizard.” He laughed once he was done chewing and right before inhaling another bite.

“Food wizard--” he repeated with a breathless chuckle, diving into his own meal. Highly amused, but Lucas always, enjoyed watching people eat his food, the way it lit up their face. The shock, the joy, the savoring. All good emotions and a moment of calm for anyone. They always settled down, sat, leaned, or just stopped worrying about their lives when they ate something he made. It was peaceful, and joyous, and it was why Luke wanted to be a chef. He seemed like a good guy, he hoped his life was okay, not too stressful, filled with more fun than pain. Maybe here could be enough of an oasis, it’s always been for him. “Text me when you are working, and I’ll work around it. I’m very flexible, and if we need to close for a day of scheduling it’s okay. Also, don’t forget, every once in a while we have that gross pizza challenge night. You should bring some friends next time, or, if you wanted to make up some bad concoctions for people, you can help me.”

Orion kept stuffing the food in his mouth as he listen to Lucas. He tried slowing himself down a little. He had spent so much time eating alone in the Scribe headquarters that he had sorta forgotten about manners. Plus he wanted to savor the taste and enjoy the food that he was eating instead of scarfing it all down in a single sitting. “Sure, of course. I can- whatever you need. If you ever need me to come in some night or another time just let me know and I’ll work around it as best I can.” He laughed, remembering the gross pizza challenge but never coming for it. “I think of at least three people that would very willingly come to that challenge. I’ll make sure to bring them along next time.” It felt weird even to him, saying that he had three friends. “I’ll definitely start brainstorming some ideas for that, it sounds fun I can’t believe I’ve never been to one.”

“Awesome, please do, not that I run out of many, most people have requests now after their friends fail some combination,” Luke continued to fill Orion in on the business, where things are, and how long things should take. Showing the times and the organized boards where the information was just in case he needed it. The night didn’t always move so quickly, so easily. But having another person here was already making the space feel like a real kitchen. One, that maybe someday could have two, three chefs in it. 

[gelasssoek]

Tsukune (Japanese style turkey meatballs). Tsukune (つくね、捏、捏ね) is a Japanese chicken meatball most often cooked yakitori style (but also can be fried or baked) and sometimes covered in a sweet soy or yakitori tare, which is often mistaken for teriyaki sauce. Japanese Chicken Meatballs called 'Tsukune' are one of the regular yakitori dish items. Soft and bouncy chicken meatballs are skewered and chargrilled with sweet soy sauce, i.e. yakitori sauce.

Since I had received great feedback from readers on my oven-broiled yakitori recipe, I couldn't wait to share this tsukune recipe! As summer is just around the corner, I. These Japanese chicken meatballs are seasoned with fresh ginger, garlic, scallions Not flipping the meatballs until well browned on the first side will prevent them from falling apart on the grill.

Hey everyone, it is me again, Dan, welcome to my recipe site. Today, I will show you a way to make a distinctive dish, tsukune (japanese style turkey meatballs). One of my favorites food recipes. For mine, I will make it a bit unique. This will be really delicious.

Tsukune (つくね、捏、捏ね) is a Japanese chicken meatball most often cooked yakitori style (but also can be fried or baked) and sometimes covered in a sweet soy or yakitori tare, which is often mistaken for teriyaki sauce. Japanese Chicken Meatballs called 'Tsukune' are one of the regular yakitori dish items. Soft and bouncy chicken meatballs are skewered and chargrilled with sweet soy sauce, i.e. yakitori sauce.

Tsukune (Japanese style turkey meatballs) is one of the most favored of recent trending foods on earth. It's simple, it is quick, it tastes yummy. It is enjoyed by millions daily. They're fine and they look fantastic. Tsukune (Japanese style turkey meatballs) is something which I have loved my whole life.

To begin with this particular recipe, we must prepare a few components. You can cook tsukune (japanese style turkey meatballs) using 25 ingredients and 7 steps. Here is how you cook it.

The ingredients needed to make Tsukune (Japanese style turkey meatballs):

{Prepare of For the meatball marinade:.

{Take 500 of turkey mince (or mince chicken).

{Take 1/2 of white onion, finely diced.

{Make ready 3 cloves of garlic, grated.

{Get 1 inch of chunk ginger, grated.

{Take 1 of spring onion, finely sliced.

{Prepare 1 teaspoon of ground white pepper.

{Prepare 70 g of panko breadcrumbs.

{Get 2 teaspoons of pure sesame oil.

{Get 2 1/2 tablespoons of light soya sauce.

{Take 2 tablespoons of clear runny honey.

{Make ready 2 tablespoons of mirin.

{Make ready 2 tablespoons of plain flour or corn flour.

{Prepare of Other ingredient:.

{Prepare 2-3 tablespoons of vegetable oil (or any cooking oil).

{Make ready of Meatball glaze/sauce:.

{Prepare 4 tablespoons of water.

{Take 2 tablespoons of mirin.

{Make ready 2-3 tablespoons of white sugar or runny clear honey.

{Get 2 tablespoons of light soya sauce.

{Prepare 2 tablespoons of sesame oil.

{Get 6-7 of bamboo skewers (teppō gushi, 鉄砲串, gun skewer - narrow flat skewer with a handle).

{Make ready of Garnish:.

{Take of Sprinkle Japanese chilli powder.

{Make ready of Sprinkle black or white sesame seeds.

These Japanese-style chicken meatball skewers, called Tsukune, are grilled to a deep golden brown and brushed with a sweet soy glaze. Great for game day snacks or just when you feel like eating something on a stick (which is every day for us). Well, it's finally that time of year. Tsukune, Japanese-style chicken meatballs, is off the charts delicious!

Instructions to make Tsukune (Japanese style turkey meatballs):

In a large mixing bowl, place the mince meat along with the onion, garlic, ginger, spring onions, breadcrumbs, sesame oil, light soya sauce, honey, mirin and flour together. Using rubber gloves or chopsticks mix all of the ingredients together until well incorporated. Cover bowl with cling film and set aside for about 30 minutes to let the marinade infuse into the meat..

Once the meat has had time to marinade, prepare a baking tray or plate. Grab a small amount of meat (bite size) and roll into a ball shape. Repeat this until all of the meat has been used. Roughly makes 15 meatballs, so each skewer will have 3 pieces of meat on..

In a flat pan (either using big or small depending on how many your cooking), on medium heat add the oil. Add the meat balls and cook for a few minutes until lightly coloured. Then turn over to colour other side and then on both sides to brown. Keep continuously turning the meat balls to ensure the meat cook and colours evenly. Tip: if not cooking all at once separate the batches. The uncooked meatballs can be placed into a food container/freeze bag and be stored in the fridge/freezer..

Once the meat is fully cooked through, remove from the pan and transfer onto a plate or baking tray. Let the meat rest for a few minutes. Then poke the bamboo skewers into the meat balls (3 meatballs per skewer). Tip: I learnt this trick from Yui, to skewer the meat after its cooked, so the meat doesn't fall off during the cooking process..

Using the same pan turn the heat to low and add the meatball glaze ingredients. Using a wooden spoon stir the sauce to ensure that the honey or sugar dissolves. Taste the glaze and adjust as necessary (add more sugar, soya sauce, water, mirin etc)..

Once the glaze begins to thicken slightly and bubble, turn the heat to very low. Then place the skewered meatballs back into pan. Using a wooden spoon, generously cover the meatballs with the glaze all over. Let the meatballs soak in the glaze for a few minutes..

Once ready to serve, place the meatballs either on a serving plate and pour the glaze over. Or in a serving bowl, place the steamed rice at the bottom, place the meatballs skewers on top and drizzle over some of the glaze over the meat to soak into the rice. Then garnish with sesame seeds and Japanese chilli powder. Serve with a side of tamagoyaki egg, greens or pickled vegetables to cut through the sweetness..

With soft and juicy meatballs basted in a sweet, salty, and little sticky sauce. This tsukune recipe is keto and low carb. The meatballs are incredibly flavorful and I guarantee your guests will have no problem eating one after. This video will show you how to make Tsukue, chicken meat balls with a kind of Teriyaki sauce. Tsukune are delicious Japanese meatballs typically made with ground chicken or pork.

So that's going to wrap it up with this exceptional food tsukune (japanese style turkey meatballs) recipe. Thanks so much for your time. I am sure you can make this at home. There's gonna be interesting food in home recipes coming up. Remember to bookmark this page in your browser, and share it to your loved ones, colleague and friends. Thanks again for reading. Go on get cooking!

[atravellingfoodie]

This Cape Malay spicy Chicken Samoosa recipe makes delicious crispy triangles filled with minced chicken, aromatic spices, finely diced onion and coriander. My favorite is an approximation of my mother’s easy samosa recipe using minimal spices.

Samoosas are a very popular snack item in Cape Town and during Ramadhan it is practically compulsory at iftar with soup, boeber or falooda milkshake.

My mother never made the samosa sheets herself but used home made ready made pur or samosa pastry strips. You can use store bought good quality samosa pastry strips to make this chicken samosa recipe. My father always found a reliable supplier for the pur or samosa pastry sheets, and my mother made her own filling for chicken samoosas, meat samoosas, cheese samoosas, potato samoosas and vegan samoosas (made with soya mince). The best thing about making our own samoosas was having the off-cut pastry to fry for paaper and snacking on later.

One day after my father’s best friend mentioned that his daughter Feroza had started a small cottage industry, my dad immediately called her to place an order to support her business. Her products included meat samoosas and chicken samoosas, and from the first bite we were hooked. Her samosa pastry was crispy when fried, and the beef and chicken samoosa filling tasted very close to my mother’s own recipes.

We ordered fresh and frozen samosas from her until she stopped making them for sale. Thereafter my mother resumed making her own samosas until my father passed away. Then she learned that her friend Mariam made samosas to sell, and ordered from her instead. I have been the recipient of Aunty Mariam’s generosity for many years and whenever I visit Cape Town she still sends me back to Dubai with minced beef samosas, chicken samosas and potato samosas.

Aunty Mariam has not been well for a while so I decided that I need to perfect my own samoosa recipes. From cracked pastry triangles with the filling spilling out and sticky black residue left after deep frying, I am not impressed with the store bought versions.

How to make a chicken samoosa recipe

For as long as I can remember, my late father refused to eat anyone else’s chicken samoosas because he said no one else’s tasted as good as my later mother’s samoosas.

I have included two chicken samoosa filling recipes below because they have similar ingredients but different methods of making the filling. Both versions are sealed with an edible glue slurry made from flour and water.

Method 1 is how I remember my late mother making chicken samoosas:

Dry fry the minced chicken until no liquid reminds.

Rub finely chopped onions with salt and then blanch with hot water and drain and squeeze out as much liquid as possible. This will remove what my mum referred to as ‘wild onion taste’.

Basic spices like garlic, ginger, cumin powder and NO garam masala.

Method 2 is the way Katriena makes it based on my Aunt Gadija’s recipe:

Dry fry the minced chicken until no liquid reminds.

Squeeze out as much liquid as possible from the onions then simmer the onions with cooked minced chicken.

Add garam masala and other spices.

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  Top tips when making home made samoosas

Use a clean unused fabric kitchen towel for squeezing the liquid from  the onions. I found that cheesecloth works for small batches of onion but you may require a tea or dish towel for bigger amounts . Soak the bag in soapy water immediately after use to remove the smell and yellow onion stains.

Don’t use the onion cloth for anything else and when it has dried, store it in a ziplock bag for future use.

When folding a chicken samoosa make sure the filling is tightly packed but not overfilled and that the pastry can be folded over to make a tight corner.

Check that all the corners are tight and small enough to hold any back any small fragments of filling. If the corners are wide open the filling will escape during frying and turn black in the oil. Remove any burnt bits with a skimmer or spider strainer.

When removing the cooked samoosas from the oil let them drain on a plate or baking sheet lined with kitchen paper towel.

Do not stack the hot samoosas against or on top of each other as the steam and heat will cause the pastry to become soft.

The uncooked samoosas can be frozen for 3-6 months if you do not want to use them immediately. I normally pack 10-12 samoosas laying flat in a ziplock bag and then freeze. It takes up less space this way.

Defrost in the fridge before use in summer and on the counter for a few hours during winter.

Samosa folding method

There are two ways to fold samosas using pastry strips, and you should use the method you find easiest.

Method 1

Fold one end of the strip over and fold it over again to form a triangle pocket. Spoon in the chicken filling then fold over the long end until the triangle is sealed and the corners are tight. Smear the glue across the last portion to seal the samosa.

Method 2

Lay the samosa strips on the work surface and spoon on a bit of the chicken filling. Fold over the short edge to form a triangle and keep folding towards the long end until a short piece remains. Smear the glue across and seal. Ensure that all the corners are tightly sealed.

My mother always used the first method and I didn’t know there was even a second method until we saw her newly married friend’s wife making minced beef samosas one day when we visited their home.

More than twenty years later the same couple were invited to lunch at our home one Sunday. My mother was making samosas for Ramadhan and when her friend arrived earlier than his wife, he helped us with the samosa folding. When his wife arrived about 20 minutes later she found him chatting away, rapidly folding one samosa after another (using method 1).

I’ll never forget the look on her face as she watched him in utter dismay. Eventually she couldn’t help herself and blurted: ‘you never told me you knew how to fold samoosas’. My mum laughed and said: ‘he’s been folding samosas since he was 9 years old and we helped Mrs. Boltman on a Friday night when she had the takeaways downstairs’.

He looked up sheepishly and said: ‘you were always so organised with your samosa making and I didn’t want to interfere’. 😀

How to cook chicken samoosa

Chicken samoosas can be deep fried, shallow fried or baked from frozen. Serve your chicken samoosa with delicious chutney.

How to Deep Fry chicken samoosas

Heat the oil in a deep fat fryer or deep saucepan on medium high.

Test if the oil is hot enough by inserting the back of a wooden spoon into the oil and if bubbles form around it you can start frying.

If frying from frozen, put the samoosas into cool oil and it will heat up together. This ensures that the samoosa pastry doesn’t burn while the filling remains cold.

Take each room temperature samoosa and lightly press against the sides to puff them up, taking care not to press too hard and split the pastry.

Place the samoosas carefully in the oil and fry until golden then turn and fry until the second side is the same color.

How to Shallow fry chicken samoosas

Heat the oil on medium heat in a shallow frying pan.

Test if the oil is hot enough by inserting the back of a wooden spoon into the oil and if bubbles form around it you can start frying.

Take each samoosa and lightly press against the sides to puff them up, taking care not to press too hard and split the pastry.

Place the samoosas carefully in the oil and fry until golden then turn and fry until the second side is the same color.

The samoosas will be darker where the pastry is closer to the cooking surface of the pan.

How to Bake chicken samoosas

Heat the oven to 180 Celcius / 160 Fan / 350 F / Gas Mark 4 about 10 minutes before you want to bake your chicken samoosas.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and lightly spray or brush the paper with oil.

Place the chicken samoosas on the parchment paper and brush or spray the top with a light coating of oil.

Bake for 10 minutes then flip them over and bake for another 10 minutes.

For more appetisers click on one of these other snack recipes below:

Daltjies spinach and corn fritters

Sweet corn and polenta fritters

Caramelised onion, fig and brie tart

Cape Malay Chicken Samoosa recipe (Method 1)

Crispy triangles filled with aromatic spicy minced chicken.

Onions

5 ml salt

250 grams onion, finely chopped (approximately 1 large unpeeled onion)

Filling

500 grams chicken, minced finely

2.5 ml salt (approximately 1/2 teaspoon add more to taste)

10 ml grated garlic or garlic paste (approximately 2 teaspoons or 3 cloves grated)

5 ml grated ginger or ginger paste (approximately 1 teaspoon or 1 inch piece grated)

2.5 ml turmeric powder (approximately 1/2 teaspoon)

2.5 ml chili powder (approximately 1/2 teaspoon)

5 ml coriander powder (approximately 1 teaspoon)

5 ml cumin powder (approximately 1 teaspoon)

2 green chillies, sliced

40 grams fresh coriander leaves and stems, finely chopped (approximately 375 ml or 1 1/2 cups)

Samoosas

25 samoosa pastry sheets

35 grams cake flour, for sealing (approximately 60 ml or 1/4 cup)

45 ml water, for sealing (approximately 3 tablespoons)

oil for deep frying (I use sunflower oil)

Onions

Peel and finely chop the onions then place into a rice colander.

Rub the onions with salt then pour over a kettle of boiling water and allow to drain.

Squeeze out the excess moisture from the onions by placing it in a clean unused tea towel or cheese cloth, and turning the edges tight. Repeat three or four times.

Filling

Heat a high sided frying pan or wok on medium high without oil and add the chicken mince.

Cook the chicken mince until the chicken is crumbly and no liquid remains. This should take about 15 minutes.

Add the salt, garlic, ginger, turmeric, chili powder, coriander and cumin powder and chopped chillies and cook through for 5 minutes.

Add the drained chopped onions stir to combine thoroughly then remove from heat. You don't need to cook the onions more than that.

Taste the filling to check the seasoning and add more salt, if required.

Place the mixture into a rice colander over a bowl and allow to cool and drain of excess liquid.

When the mixture is completely cool, chop the coriander and stir through before filling the samosas. Use a sharp knife so the coriander doesn't bruise and turn brown.

How to assemble a samoosa

Mix the flour and water for the glue when the chicken filling is cool and you are about to assemble.

Keep the length of the pastry facing away from you and fold the bottom right corner across to the left edge.

Now fold that across to the right side again to form triangle shaped pocket. Ensure that the bottom tip of the pocket is tightly sealed or all the filling will escape during frying.

Fill the pocket with two tablespoons of samoosa filling. Use more or less depending on the width of the samoosa pastry strips.

Fold the long end of the pastry strip over the pocket and continue folding the triangle until only a short flap remains.

Use your finger or the back of a teaspoon to spread samoosa glue onto the pastry strip.

Fold the glued section against the triangle and ensure that all the corners are tight.

At this point you can either fry the samosas, refrigerate and use within 2 days, or freeze until required.

Frying

If frying, heat the oil in a medium sized pot, wok or deep fryer. Make sure it is at least 2 cm's deep so that the samoosas don't touch the bottom of the pot.

When the oil sizzles around the back of a wooden spoon add the samoosas one at a time and don't overcrowd the pot.

Cook until golden brown on each side for 1 1/2 to 2 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon and let drain on a baking sheet lined with paper towels.

Serve hot.

Nutrition: I have estimated 5ml sunflower oil per samoosa even though if cooked at the right temperature the pastry does not absorb any oil. 

If using an air fryer, cook according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Soak the cloth that you used for the onions in soapy water immediately to remove the smell and stain. Use this cloth only for this purpose.

Method 2 is by Simone and Katriena Fortuin. When relatives in Citrusdal wanted Samoosas a few Christmasses ago,  Simone and Katriena set about to make their own minced meat and chicken samoosa fillings. Katriena couldn’t remember how my mother used to make it and asked my Aunt Gadija for guidance. I have tasted their samoosas and they are very delicious.

Spicy Chicken Samosa recipe (Method 2)

Crispy triangles filled with aromatic spicy minced chicken.

Onions

Filling

250 grams onion, finely chopped (approximately 1 large unpeeled onion)

500 grams chicken, finely chopped

2.5 ml salt (approximately 1/2 teaspoon, add more to taste)

10 ml garam masala (approximately 2 teaspoons)

10 ml fresh garlic, finely minced (approximately 2 teaspoons)

2.5 ml turmeric powder (approximately 1/2 teaspoon)

5 ml cumin powder (approximately 1 teaspoon)

5 ml crushed chili flakes (approximately 1 teaspoon)

40 grams fresh coriander leaves and stems, chopped (approximately 375 ml or 1 1/2 cups)

Assembly

25 samoosa pastry sheets

35 grams cake flour (approximately 60 ml or 1/4 cup)

45 ml water (approximately 3 tablespoons)

oil for deep frying (I use sunflower oil)

Filling

Peel and finely chop the onions then squeeze out the excess moisture from the onions by placing it in a clean unused tea towel, and turning the edges tight.

Heat a high sided frying pan or wok on medium high without oil and add the finely chopped chicken.

Cook the chicken mince until the chicken is crumbly and no liquid remains. This should take about 15 minutes.

Add the drained chopped onions stir to combine thoroughly and allow to simmer for 10 minutes.

Add the salt, minced garlic, garam masala, turmeric, crushed chili flakes and cumin powder and cook through for 5 minutes.

Taste the filling to check the seasoning and add more salt, if required.

When the mixture is completely cool, chop the coriander and stir through before filling the samosas. Use a sharp knife so the coriander doesn't bruise and turn brown.

Assembling the samoosa

Mix the flour and water for the glue when the chicken filling is cool and you are about to assemble.

Keep the length of the pastry facing away from you and fold the bottom right corner across to the left edge.

Now fold that across to the right side again to form triangle shaped pocket. Ensure that the bottom tip of the pocket is tightly sealed or all the filling will escape during frying.

Fill the pocket with two tablespoon of samoosa filling. Use more or less depending on the width of the samoosa pastry strips.

Fold the long end of the pastry strip over the pocket and continue folding the triangle until only a short flap remains.

Use your finger or the back of a teaspoon to spread samoosa glue onto the pastry strip.

Fold the glued section against the triangle and ensure that all the corners are tight.

At this point you can either fry the samosas, refrigerate and use within 2 days or freeze until required.

Frying

If frying, heat the oil in a medium sized pot, wok or deep fryer. Make sure it is at least 2 cm's deep so that the samoosas don't touch the bottom of the pot.

When the oil sizzles around the back of a wooden spoon add the samoosas one at a time and don't overcrowd the pot.

Cook until golden brown on both sides for 1 1/2 to 2 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon and let drain on a baking sheet lined with paper towels.

Serve immediately.

Nutrition: I have estimated 5ml sunflower oil per samoosa even though if cooked at the right temperature the pastry does not absorb any oil. 

If you are concerned about the samoosa coming apart, you can smear some glue along the edges of the triangle of the first and second fold. It may however make the end result slightly heavier and more chewy. 

If using an air fryer, cook according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Soak the cloth that you used for the onions in soapy water immediately to remove the smell and stain. Use this cloth only for this purpose.

If you liked the recipe above please consider rating the recipe and leaving a comment below. Also keep in touch on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram for more updates.

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Scrumptious Chicken Samoosa recipe – 2 ways This Cape Malay spicy Chicken Samoosa recipe makes delicious crispy triangles filled with minced chicken, aromatic spices, finely diced onion and coriander.

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Penne Alla Vodka with Chicken

This post is sponsored by Almond Breeze. Thanks for supporting the brands and companies that make it possible for me to continue to create quality content for you!

My first experience with Penne alla Vodka with Chicken was cooking a “gourmet” meal for a group of college friends in our dorm’s basement kitchen. Looking back, I’m not sure which impresses me more: our resourcefulness (that kitchen was equipped with little beyond a hot pot and a few forks someone had “donated” from the dining hall) or our audacity to make a vodka sauce on a campus that doesn’t allow vodka. After one bite, we felt validated. The pasta tasted glorious and was worth the risk.

While I don’t remember anything else we ate—my hunch is the full menu included the penne alla vodka with chicken, wine (from a box), and cake (also from a box)—penne alla vodka has been one of my favorite comfort food dishes since. It’s not one that I make often, but every time I eat it, I’m transported back to that fun, silly night and the joy of good company.

If you aren’t familiar with penne alla vodka or are wondering how to make a vodka sauce, it’s a delightful, rich mix of crushed tomatoes and cream. As its name suggests, penne alla vodka is also made with vodka, which is cooked down and keeps the acidity of the tomatoes from causing the cream to break and separate. This is culinary science at its most delicious.

The count of classic penne alla vodka with chicken calories typically puts it on the “special indulgence” list. I couldn’t resist the urge to see if I could take the classic comfort food and make it better for you.

SUCH A HIT! This is one of the lightened-up recipes I’ve been proudest of lately, and I can’t wait for you to try it.

The Best Penne alla Vodka with Chicken Recipe (Done Lighter!)

 A few of the skinny swaps in this Penne alla Vodka with Chicken recipe were simple, such as replacing the regular penne with whole wheat penne for an extra boost of nutrients, fiber, and protein. The largest challenge (and thus the one I most needed to tackle) was what to do with the full cup plus of heavy cream called for in many classic penne alla vodka recipes.

My solution? A “cream” made of ground almonds and Almond Breeze almondmilk Original Unsweetened.

Almondmilk has long been my go-to ingredient to give sweet and savory recipes like this Healthy Chicken Pot Pie and this Creamy Polenta richness without adding excess calories. Combined with the bulk and healthy fats in the ground almonds, it creates the most incredible “cream” that once stirred into the vodka sauce is a dead-ringer for the Italian classic.

As an additional bonus, this recipe is entirely dairy free. You can add a bit of Parmesan if that isn’t a concern; we opted for nutritional yeast, which is loaded with nutrients and has a similar “cheesy” taste to Parmesan.

This recipe is now on our favorites list. Ben took it to work every morning we had it in the refrigerator (the surest sign of his recipe approval). It makes a big batch and reheats well, so it’s a great recipe to make at the beginning of the week, then keep on hand for fast, healthy meals all week long.

Penne alla Vodka with Chicken Recipe Variations

Penne alla Vodka with Chicken and Broccoli: Stir steamed broccoli into the pasta at the end.

Penne alla Vodka with Chicken and Shrimp: After sautéing the chicken in Step 2, sauté 1 pound of peeled and deveined shrimp; stir it in with the chicken at the end.

Vegetarian Penne alla Vodka: Simply omit the chicken! Thanks to the almonds, this pasta recipe is still plenty satisfying without it.

What to Serve with Penne alla Vodka with Chicken

Penne Alla Vodka with Chicken

Healthy Penne Alla Vodka with Chicken. An easy, family friendly dinner that everyone loves! A lighter version of classic vodka sauce — Creamy and delicious!

Yield: Serves 6-8

Prep Time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 25 minutes

Total Time: 40 minutes

Ingredients:

3/4 cup raw almonds, soaked in water for at least 4 hours or up to 10 hours (if you have a high-powered blended such as a Vitamix, you can skip the soak)

3/4 cup Almond Breeze almondmilk Original Unsweetened

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1 teaspoon kosher salt, divided

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

1 cup vodka

1 large yellow onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 (28-ounce) can crushed tomatoes

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1 pound whole wheat penne or similar whole wheat pasta

2 tablespoons nutritional yeast or Parmesan (optional—use nutritional yeast to make dairy free or omit)

Thinly sliced fresh basil or chopped fresh parsley

Directions:

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Drain the almonds, then place them in a blender with the almondmilk. Puree until smooth, thick, and creamy. Depending upon your blender, this may take several minutes and you may need to stop and scrape down the blender a few times. The mixture will be the consistency of a paste and will have brown flecks of almond skin in it. Set aside.

Meanwhile, in a very large, deep skillet or Dutch oven, heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium high heat. Once hot, add the chicken. Season with 1/2 teaspoon salt and black pepper. Sauté until lightly browned on all sides and cooked through, about 4 to 6 minutes. Remove to a plate and set aside. Make sure you have the vodka measured and on hand.

To the same pan, add the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil. Let warm up, then add the onion and remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt. Cook until the onion begins to soften, about 3 to 4 minutes, then add the garlic and cook just until fragrant, about 30 seconds, being careful not to burn it.

Carefully add the vodka (be especially careful if your stove has an open flame). Scrape to deglaze the pan, then let the vodka cook until reduced by half, about 5 minutes. Add the crushed tomatoes, oregano, and red pepper flakes. Bring this sauce to a steady simmer, then reduce the heat to a low simmer over medium low, adjusting the heat as needed so that the sauce simmers gently (you want it to continue to reduce but not bubble aggressively). Let simmer until thickened, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the blended almond mixture until the sauce is smooth and the almond mixture is well incorporated (the sauce will turn a light, creamy red color). Taste and adjust seasoning as desired.

While the sauce simmers, cook the pasta in the boiling water to al dente, according to package instructions. Reserve 1 cup of the pasta cooking liquid, then drain the pasta and immediately add it to the sauce. Toss to coat the pasta, then stir in the chicken, adding a bit of the pasta cooking liquid to loosen the sauce as needed. Stir in the nutritional yeast. Serve hot, sprinkled with basil or parsley.

All images and text ©Erin Clarke/Well Plated.

Nutrition Information

Serving Size: 1 (of 8), about 2 cups

Amount Per Serving:

Calories: 475 Calories

Total Fat: 14g

Saturated Fat: 2g

Cholesterol: 28mg

Carbohydrates: 46g

Fiber: 9g

Sugar: 7g

Protein: 24g

This post contains some affiliate links, which means that I make a small commission off items you purchase at no additional cost to you.

Source: https://www.wellplated.com/penne-alla-vodka-with-chicken/

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DAY TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHT - 2/1/17

“DUMPLINGS: A ONE-MAN PLAY FOR TWO ACTORS” (COMPLETE) by DJS

Finished it! More or less happy with the end result. The awesome thing is not knowing where the story is going. In fact, I read a blog the other day with tips on playwriting and it strongly recommended knowing your ending before starting out, and while that may work for some, I just couldn’t imagine denying myself the pleasure of discovering what the characters have in store for me. For instance, the whole bit with the hospital. Since the moment the character of Guest introduced that whole thing into the conversation, I was fairly confident Dan would have to address it and tell his story (my story of almost dying, but whatever). Then I got to that point in the story and realized, he didn’t want to talk about it. The character (me, ostensibly) was not ready to address that subject in his work yet. So he (I) didn’t. And I find that so incredibly subversive; not what an audience, or myself for that matter, would expect. I’m actually proud of that.

So here it is, check it out. From the top.

 Characters

  Dan, mid thirties

 Guest, same age or younger, better looking, any gender

   Place

 Any theater, on a mostly bare stage

   Time

 Now

   A Note on Dialogue

 A “/” in a character’s speech indicates where the next line of dialogue begins.

 Take on me (take on me)

Take me on (take on me)

 - A-ha, “Take On Me”

 The audience enters the theater to find the stage set with a table and two chairs. The table is rectangular, not huge, and covered with a protective layer of white butcher paper. And the chairs should be upstage of the table, side by side, facing the audience.

 Preshow music is fun 90’s pop, a playlist that must include “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer.

 At rise Dan and Guest come onstage. They greet the audience, waving or giving small bows. A combination of both is fine, if warranted.

Then they sit.

 DAN

Ok. So first off-

           GUEST

First off?

           DAN

Firstly?

           GUEST

Can I stop you right there? Is there going to be a “secondly”?  Or “second off”?

           DAN

Yes. But chances are I won’t frame it that way. I don’t really have a bullet point sort of system…

           GUEST

But you’re not flying by the seat of your pants, either.

           DAN

No. No, / no.

           GUEST

Ok. Good. So: first off.

           DAN

First off, yes.

    (to Guest)

Welcome!

           GUEST

Oh!

           DAN

Thanks for being here. For uh, joining me.

           GUEST

Well, it’s a pleasure. I’ve never made dumplings before!

           DAN

But I assume you’ve had them, eaten …

           GUEST

You assume correctly – making neither an ass of you or me in the process. No, yes, I have partaken. Both at restaurants and frozen. From frozen I should say.

           DAN

Cool.

           GUEST

Very cool, yes, they were frozen.

           DAN

I see what you did there…

           GUEST

And no doubt appreciated it as much me.

           DAN

    (laughs)

So why don’t you ask how I came by this recipe?

           GUEST

Right: “How, on God’s green earth, did you come by this magnificent dumpling recipe that you are now only moments from sharing with the likes of little ol’ me? Oh gosh, how did I ever get so lucky?”

           DAN

Good of you to ask so un-prompted like that.

           GUEST

I try.

           DAN

You do try. You’re a good sport, Thank you. You’re a wonderful guinea pig for doing this. Thanks again for being here.

           GUEST

Thank you again for having me. You’re welcome.

           Beat.

           DAN

This is weird isn’t? I mean, it’s a little strange, right?

           GUEST

How come? Because our dialogue is scripted? And yet it’s made to seem – or we’re made to deliver it, perform uh – like we’re just making it up as we go along…?

           DAN

Having a natural conversation, yes.

           GUEST

Well, but I mean all drama’s scripted- TV, movies. Why should this be any-?

           DAN

I don’t know…

           Pause.

           GUEST

Y’know what? I wouldn’t worry about it.

           DAN

You wouldn’t?

           GUEST

No, not too much.

           DAN

But the suspension of disbelief thing…

           GUEST

Oh, well, that’s easy enough to get over. We’ll just ask the audience –

    (to audience)

Audience: please, we request your indulgence here tonight to suspend your disbelief at this play not being real? Our interactions, banter, etcetera, whatever we might do. That we’ve obviously rehearsed and… to make this appear, you know, for your benefit as much as ours, more life-like, when really it’s nothing but a fallacy. That we’re all “in on the joke” so to speak. What do you say? Can we get a round of applause consenting to the above?

 Guest encourages the audience to applaud their consent. The audience hopefully obliges.

           GUEST

There you go! See?!

    (or, if they happen to not)

Oh, well, there you go. We’re on our own, it seems.

           DAN

    (regardless of outcome)

Okay…

           GUEST

So where’d you get the recipe?

           DAN

Blue Apron.

           GUEST

The food delivery service?

           DAN

Well, you know. “Food delivery”

           GUEST

Why do you do that? Put food delivery in imaginary spoken suggested air-quotes?

           DAN

Well, because Blue Apron doesn’t deliver fully-formed, fully-cooked meals to your door, even to just pop in your oven – you have to make them yourself. Like a whole process with a recipe, ingredients- actual cooking. It’s not like ordering a pizza.

           GUEST

Or is it like ordering a pizza from Papa John’s? You bake it yourself.

           DAN

Papa Murphy’s.

           GUEST

Hmm?

           DAN

Papa Murphy’s, you’re thinking of Papa Murphy’s. Murphy’s is Take and Bake. Papa John’s is just like a regular restaurant. Or, not like a restaurant - you can’t eat there, they don’t have seating - but for pick-up. To-go.

           GUEST

Oh I see.

           DAN

Not to get off on a tangent there…

           GUEST

Really? You think this won’t be an evening full of delightfully kooky tangents /

           DAN

Well… /

           GUEST

and that that won’t end up being the whole point?

           DAN

Well-

           GUEST

I mean ‘cause let’s be honest here, if anyone was gonna be voted in high school Least Likely to Host His Own Cooking Show, that would be you. Your picture next to that dubious distinction. I mean with your history or lack thereof in the kitchen…?

           DAN

Brutal honesty.

           GUEST

I’s just calls ‘em likes I sees ‘em.

           DAN

And now racist.

           GUEST

How was that-?

           DAN

I don’t know. It just sounded like you were doing an old-timey black voice.

           GUEST

For your information that was my old-timey gangster.

           DAN

Great, good - can we move on?

            GUEST

Not without first – first off – acknowledging the glowing pink, like neon elephant in the room.

           DAN

O-K.

    (waits)

Which is what…?

           GUEST

Which is- You don’t know how to cook.

           DAN

Yes I do. I know how to cook-

           GUEST

You don’t-

           DAN

I do. I’m learning how to cook. That’s like the whole point of Blue Apron-

           GUEST

I thought the whole point of Blue Apron was to take the work out of- you know, the shopping, prep, etc.-

           DAN

Oh, you still do prep.

           GUEST

Like cut up vegetables and-?

           DAN

Yeah, they just send you the proper amounts of -

         GUEST

Well that… kind of sucks doesn’t it? I’m thinking for like the single woman on the go, her mindset. Doesn’t that just make more work?

           DAN

Yes and no. Is it as fast as a microwave dinner? No. Is it about the same time as ordering take-out from some place, pizza-?

           GUEST

Yeah, but you don’t actually have to make the pizza, shred the cheese, chop up the peppers, mushrooms, olives-

           DAN

Olives…nobody chops up olives, you buy pre-sliced in the can, or halved / or -

           GUEST

Why?

           DAN

Why, because it would just be inconvenient to-

 GUEST

Aha! See! See! Thank you, you’ve just made my point for me. Why can’t Blue Apron like, I don’t know, dice up your onions for you? I mean some stuff must come already prepped, right? Like olives?

           DAN

A few things / but-

           GUEST

And you never wondered or wished or everything wasn’t that way? I mean if you ask me, I think they’re just trying to lower the cost of their overhead.

           DAN

Probably, but-

           GUEST

So why not pay a little more so you, the consumer, isn’t so burdened?

           DAN

But it’s not a burden.

         Guest looks at him skeptically.

           DAN

It’s not, it’s really… because like I said the whole point… well, not the whole point – I mean there’s the convenience factor/ and-

           GUEST

Even though you yourself said not a moment ago it was inconvenient.

           DAN  

    (ignoring that)

And ALSO- also getting to try a bunch of foods you never, to widen your scope, uh, palate to… But a large part, no, to return to the, is you learn how to cook.  For instance, you were lamenting the fact, laboring on the, that you had to prep all your own vegetables and stuff-

           GUEST

Well, not the olives it seems but…

           DAN

    (again, not letting himself be distracted)

WELL you might be surprised to know I have actually gotten much faster at dicing onions, for instance, I have my own method, not probably how the real chefs / do it-

           GUEST

Do you know that’s the second time you said “for instance” in the span of like a sentence? You just used it.

           DAN

What do you want me to say? “For example,” then-

           GUEST

But yeah, but, how many examples and for instances can you use before you just sound like you’re repeating yourself?

           DAN

    (staring at Guest)

Wow …

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

No. I just don’t know why you’re being so critical and attacking me all of a sudden.

           GUEST

All of a sudden? You mean in the ten minutes we’ve been out here?

           DAN

Regardless of, all this, of your hostility is coming out of nowhere.

           GUEST

Hostility.

           DAN

Yes.

           Guest considers this. Then:

           GUEST

Hey –

    (claps hands)

- fun experiment! Do you wanna let folks in on a peek behind the curtain?

           DAN

What are you talking about?

           GUEST

You know, the writerly process and whatnot…

           DAN

Seriously what are you-

           GUEST

When you first typed “hostility” – back when you were first writing the script – you didn’t type “hostility” you typed…?

           Pause.

           DAN

I don’t… what?

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

I don’t remember.

           GUEST

Yes you do. Come on.

           DAN

“Come on…” What, did I misspell hostility or-?

           GUEST

No, a completely different word.

 Pause. Dan shrugs, either he doesn’t know or he’s pretending not to. Either way:

  GUEST

Fine – play dumb. You originally typed HOSPITAL.

           DAN

Hospital?

           GUEST

Yeah, instead of hostility, hospital. As in “Paging Doctor Vega, Doctor Vega to the Emergency Room please”

           DAN

Wait – who is… / DOCTOR VEGA?

           GUEST

I can’t believe you’re pretending like you don’t remember.

           DAN

I’m not. / I don’t.

           GUEST

Yeah you do. / Yes you do.

           DAN

Why? Why would I lie? About something as stupid / as-

           GUEST

Uhhhhh to seem more smart, maybe? Or look less dumb.

           DAN

How would I…

    (pause)

Okay, first off –

           GUEST

Here we go again.

           DAN

FIRST OFF. It’s “smarter”. Not “more smart”.

           GUEST

WOW. Getting into a semantics argument this early, huh? You really wanna do that, go that route?

           DAN

Not really but you’re kind of forcing my hand-

           GUEST

HEY YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU KNOW WHAT’S ALWAYS BUGGED ME?

           DAN

Why are you yelling?

           GUEST

You know what’s always bugged me? The little quirks of the English language. Like how you’re supposed to say SMARTER, not MORE SMART. But you don’t say –and this is just a for instance –

    (Dan rolls his eyes)

FUN-ner. You say MORE FUN. I mean shoot, no wonder English is such a second language to people. It wouldn’t be my choice of a first.

           Beat.

           DAN

Can I continue with what I was saying now?

           GUEST

Oh, by all means, do, let’s.

           Beat.

           DAN

How would I like dumb? Because I made a mistake? A perfectly reasonable just ordinary typed-one-word-when-I-meant-another–

           GUEST

Exactly. Which is why you blowing it up into this whole thing and not just admitting to the teensiest of foibles-

           DAN

Because I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t make a mistake!

           Silence. A beat or two.

 GUEST

Y’know…?

           DAN

What?

           GUEST

No, I was just gonna say: you know what’s so funny about overcompensation -?

           DAN

Oh my god. / Please

           GUEST

No, just- just hear me out-

           DAN

Like I could stop you.

           GUEST

Ha, yes.

    (considers that, then)

You know what’s so funny about overcompensation? I mean when people overcompensate? And it’s not select to some people and others immune, I think we all do it from time to time, when it suits us. Just our buttons get pushed and-

           DAN

Get to the, the thing, the crux of your… whatever.

           GUEST

    (defensive, even haughty)

I am! I will!

 But instead, there is a long pause. Guest scratches their head, in bemused thought.

           GUEST

Shit, you’re gonna hate me, but I lost my train of thought.

           DAN

    (deeply sarcastic)

Awesome.

           GUEST

Sorry, not my intention, just I was chugging along there pretty good and then whoops, jumped the track - /

DAN

Right

           GUEST

No survivors.

           DAN

Okay

           GUEST

Like that movie Titanic.

 Short pause, as Dan stares at Guest.

           GUEST

So but…

Wait, why are you staring at me like that?

    (No response)

Ooooooo-kay. Creepy. But, what do you think you’re overcompensating for?

    (Dan opens his mouth-)

And before you say anything, really think about it, I want you to really, like, plumb the depths of your… subconscious or, you know, I mean if that’s what’s coming into play here, blocking you from-

           DAN

Is this… are you like my therapist now? Who says I’m blocked?

           GUEST

I do. I say you’re blocked.  

           DAN

But blocked / how?

           GUEST

And I would never agree to be your therapist.

    (pause)

Just so we’re clear.

           Beat.

           DAN

Blocked how, though?

           GUEST

How are you-? By just not even being able to see how getting so defensive about something that’s ultimately this trivial- like all I was doing was relaying an amusing anecdote, that’s it, that’s all-

           DAN

But if I had made a mistake like that, - hostility instead of hospital- / I would

           GUEST

Hospital instead of hostility, but.

           DAN

Okay, now who’s getting hung up on semantics?

(No response, Guest waiting for him to continue.)

I would, I would admit it. If I had done it. But I didn’t so…

           GUEST

Oh man. If this was only like the NFL. Then we could go to the gametape, review the play. Literally, ha.  Then you would see.

           DAN

No, I wouldn’t. Because I didn’t type hospital, I typed / hostility.

 GUEST

    (not quite yelling)

Splendid! You’ve convinced me! End of conversation! Shall we move on?

           Long pause.

           DAN

I’m sorry.

           GUEST

You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who-

           DAN

Yeah but you were right, I got defensive / and-

           GUEST

And I just wouldn’t let it go.

    (pause, sentimental, about to cry?)

Still best friends?

           DAN

    (small pause)

Are we…best/…?

           GUEST

Fuck it. You know, let’s just move on.

           DAN

Okay!

           GUEST

Okay!

           DAN

Okay.

           GUEST

Alright, okay.

           Awkward pause.

           GUEST

Where were we?

           DAN

I think you were asking me where I got the recipe from.

           GUEST

Oh yeah Blue Apron wow okay. That was like way back on page four of the script. Huh. Hate to say I toldja so about the tangents, the going on tangents thing but…

           DAN

I know, but I also wrote all this, I wrote in the tangents, so…

           GUEST

Which quite possibly makes it even weirder.

           DAN

It does, quite possibly, yes.

           GUEST

And there’s no reason – sorry but – there’s no reason to get all high and mighty about, y’know, your position in relation to mine. Like you’re the creator of this whole thing, therefore you occupy this higher echelon of character within the, the narrative. I shouldn’t be made to feel, you know, belittled or… less than.

           DAN

I’m… Ok, sorry. That’s not what I meant though, and if you felt that way.

           GUEST

No, no, let’s just- we almost had it back on track, so let’s just go.

    (false positivity)

Blue Apron?

           DAN

What?

           GUEST

I’m prompting you. This is kind of a do-over. Straight and to the point. No distractions, wild asides or tangents. Just good, clean – American - culinary fun.

           DAN

    (dubious)

Sounds… great.

Okay. Well…

We had started to / get-

           GUEST

Hold on a minute. Who’s “we”?

           DAN

…My wife and I.

           GUEST

Oh, ok. Proceed.

           DAN

We’d started to receive- or, I mean, we decided to try Blue Apron mostly because we had gotten in a food rut-

           GUEST

Food rut?

           DAN

Yeah, like eating the same dinner, same meals over and over again. And nothing imaginative either, just really like, really just gross food, y’know, nachos and sloppy joes, Manwich.

           GUEST

You don’t like Sloppy Joes?

           DAN

No, they’re fine, they’re… Just we- it was like we couldn’t.

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

WE, we couldn’t think of other stuff to make. And my wife-

           GUEST

Shawna, you can say her name.

           DAN

-Shawna yeah, Shawna is a great cook. Very intuitive. Very good at – you know, not just following a recipe but instinctively about / knowing what, while you’re in the process of,

           GUEST

Sorry, what’s instinctive?

           DAN

knowing what’s needed. What’s…instinctive? / What do you-

           GUEST

Oh no, no, I get it now. She can think on her feet.

           DAN

Right, like with spices, knowing what to add, what something needs / and-

           GUEST

You’re not.

           DAN

No. I mean I was surprised at how often they tell you to salt and pepper what you’re making. Like at every stage, “add salt and pepper,” the recipe is very…emphatic about that, you’re supposed / to-

           GUEST

So they send you the recipe, the ingredients…

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

You get to pick or’s it just random the recipes they send you?

           DAN

You get to pick. You go on the website and there’s usually six, four to six options so you don’t have to get anything you won’t – for instance-

Dan stops. Looks at Guest expecting them to say something, but Guest very graciously waves their hand like it’s not worth getting into. Dan proceeds.

           DAN

For instance, Shawna’s allergic to lemon, uhhh, citrus, so we try to avoid recipes where that’s a big component. She also hates-HATES salmon in all its forms and configurations.

           GUEST

Configurations…

           DAN

Just go with me. So we obviously don’t order any salmon recipes.

           GUEST

Do you like salmon?

           DAN

Sure, but it’s not my favorite or anything.

And I veto stuff too. Like anything with couscous, or just bizarre vegetables I’ve never heard of.

           GUEST

You don’t like to try new stuff?

           DAN

It’s not… that. I try stuff. But I think we all have a, we all like certain things, are partial to, or not partial to. Foods. Food groups, uh-

           GUEST

Can I run a list with you real quick?

           DAN

A list of…?

           GUEST

Of foods you will and will not eat, try.

           DAN

Ohhh, okay.

           GUEST

You just say yes or no.

           DAN

K.

           GUEST

Couscous.

           DAN

N- no. I already told you that-

           GUEST

Fine, fine.

Just what’s your problem with couscous?

           DAN

The texture, I think? I don’t know, we got it once and / I just didn’t-

           GUEST

    (eager to continue)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay. Um…

Bell peppers.

           DAN

No.

           GUEST

No?

           DAN

Too spicy.

           GUEST

But… bell peppers are like the LEAST SPICY of-

           DAN

Then I just don’t like the taste. I don’t like the taste they add.

           GUEST

Okay. Ummm.

Salmon-

           DAN

We already-

           GUEST

I know but other kinds of fish.

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

So like a blanket “all fish” on that one.

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

Interesting…

           DAN

And I don’t mind a fish tasting like fish either, you know, having a fishy taste or smell?

           GUEST

Sure.

Beets?

           DAN

Eww. No.

           GUEST

Fennel.

           DAN

Um, I don’t really… have an opinion…

           GUEST

Kale, then.

           DAN

Uhhh. In small doses, sure.

           GUEST

What’s a / small dose…?

           DAN

Practically non-existent.

           GUEST

Huh.

Interesting.

    (Pause. Dan looks at Guest like “What?”)

You’re kind of a picky eater aren’t you?

           DAN

/ No

           GUEST

Not all the way picky, I mean you eat all the normal stuff frou-frou’ed up a bit, but not really / that adventurous.

           DAN

SUSHI.

           GUEST

    (amused; knows where this is going)

What about it?

           DAN

Sushi’s not adventurous? RAW FISH / is not -?

           GUEST

I mean for your family maybe it’s exotic, for someone like your dad or your sister? But in the grand, you know, “scheme” of things…? Sushi’s not all that… because people like sushi.

    (an afterthought)

Sushi is not a barometer.

           Beat.

           DAN

Well maybe, but that still doesn’t make me a picky eater.

           GUEST

Then my impression was obviously wrong.

           DAN

    (slight pause)

I used to be.

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

More picky. Or selective. I didn’t even try coffee until I was almost thirty.

           GUEST

What about in college? How did you stay up to write papers and stuff?

           DAN

Oh, that’s easy. Masturbation.

           Long, long beat. Guest is abashed.

           GUEST

Excuse me? That’s kind of an admission, / don’t you think?

           DAN

What?

           GUEST

To just make, to just… reveal like that, in front of a paying audience no less.

 DAN

Oh, c’mon, it’s not this big embarrassing… thing. It’s like that book, Everybody Poops. Well, Everybody Masturbates, too.

           GUEST

And yet no one’s penned that bestseller yet. Just a matter of time I guess. You should write the foreword.

    (Dan shrugs)

You’re not even blushing.

           DAN

Should I be?

           GUEST

It’s just not the sort of behavior I’d expect from you.

           DAN

Well, I’m thirty-three.

           GUEST

And age factors into this how…?

           DAN

I’m getting older. Maybe I’m getting more honest too.

           GUEST

    (a trace of skepticism)

More honest?

           DAN

Yeah. What?

           GUEST

Oh no, it’s just…

    (pause)

Hospital.

Not

Hostility.     I just wondered / if I was talking to the same-

           DAN

    (exploding from his seat)

I DIDN’T TYPE HOSPITAL! I DIDN’T-

           GUEST

Yes, yes, continue to deny, continue to … But I was there, I know. I KNOW. I know what you typed and the fact you can’t admit it just about drives me to drink.

    (light bulb)

IN FACT!-

           Guest abruptly exits into the wings.

         Dan looks after them.

           DAN

    (to audience)

Where did they go?

    (long pause)

I didn’t type hospital, I swear. I mean I wouldn’t go to war like this over something so… miniscule, nothing. They’re just trying to get to me for whatever reason. I mean it doesn’t make sense. This is supposed to be an evening of cooking and light chatter! No heavy topics! No introspection, self or otherwise! And no grilling the host! But they seem intent on prodding and, and needling me. Why? Just to provoke a reaction?

 Guest re-enters, bottle of wine in hand, but hangs on the periphery, speaks directly to Dan, almost a challenge:

           GUEST

Tell them about the hospital.

Dan stares like a deer in headlights. No response.

 GUEST

  (more insistent)

Talk to them about the hospital.

 No response. Guest has to resist the urge to go and hit Dan. Takes a big swig from the bottle instead. Exits again.

 DAN

    (another beat, then to audience)

Okay, that was fucking weird, right? I mean, I know what they’re talking about but… I mean that has nothing to do with, with anything. It’s just a coincidence. It’s just a coincidence I typed hospital not hostility, and…

 Dan trails off, realizing his admission. Looks at audience.

         DAN

Ok, I did. I originally when I was writing the play typed HOSPITAL instead of HOSTILITY. There, okay? You CAUGHT me. I LIED, um…

    (pause)

But it still doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t thinking about the hospital- and yes, there is a hospital story, MY hospital story, of my time in the… and I’d be perfectly fine, you know, telling it, but the actual, like, crux of this piece, has nothing to do with, to do with… that. What happened. It Just Doesn’t. Okay?

Why they’re on me about it – I know I lied but…

Can we just focus on that a minute?

 Guest walks back in, wine bottle in hand.

 GUEST

Focus on what?

           Guest sits. Pause.

           DAN

Are you really drinking?

           GUEST

Yes I’m REALLY DRINKING.

    (as they take a big swig)

           DAN

Ok. I guess I just wanted to know why you want me to talk about the hospital so bad.

           GUEST

I don’t.

           DAN

Now what kind of idiot response is that?

           GUEST

YOUR idiot response. YOU wrote the play…

           DAN

Could you please stop throwing that in my face?

           GUEST

    (baby-voice)

Ohhhhh. Is it such an insult? Ohhhhhh. I’m sowwweeeeee.

           DAN

Stop it.

    (Guest continues making pouty baby faces.)

C’mon, stop- stop it- STOP!!!

    (Guest stops)

Look, do you want me to show you how to make dumplings or not?

           GUEST

By all means.

    (very poorly acted “stage” drunk)

By ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

           Beat.

           DAN

OK. Ignoring that…

I’ll be right back.

           Dan starts for the wings.

           GUEST

Where are you going?

           DAN

To get the supplies. Ingredients, tools…

           GUEST

Tools?

           DAN

Spoons and forks.

           GUEST

    (dismissive)

Fine.

           DAN

Is there a problem?

           GUEST

Not in the slightest! Take your time! Go, go! Shoo.

 Guest waves Dan off, who exits with an uncomprehending and slightly annoyed look. Beat. Guest turns their attention to the audience. A smile.

 GUEST

    (holding up bottle)

This isn’t real. There’s actually no wine in it…

    (turns bottle over, not a drop spills out)

…and I bet I didn’t fool you either! I was never that good, could never really pull off stage drunk.

(They set the bottle aside. Pause.)

None of this is real. Just so you know.  Well, I mean, obviously. You’re at a show, we’re playing make believe up here. But the conceit of the thing, right? Dan wrote himself AS A CHARACTER into his own play. PLAYED by an ACTOR – not himself. Which has gotta be its own like snake-swallowing-its-own tail challenge for an actor. Believe me, I do feel sorry for (insert first name of actor playing Dan), that can’t be easy. And when we were in rehearsal, the author watching you, watching YOU play THEM. That’s just like a cruel, like a sado-masochistic mindfuck. I mean inhabiting, or you know, realizing for an actor effectively a fictional character is hard enough. But a real person? And way more than even, like, some historical figure, like you were playing Abraham Lincoln or whomever, you know, there’s a remove there, some distance. But to ask someone to play YOU. Just a… I mean if there are any writers or inspiring out there – first, thank you for coming, keep pursuing your dreams, your craft, honing it, etcetera – but –  

    (shaking head)

Don’t do that. Keep it simple, huh? A bedroom farce or uhhh, courtroom drama! Audiences love those.  Or you know who really had a good bead on the whole theater thing? Neil Simon. Nothing too complicated there!  

    (pause)  

I bet he thinks he’s real clever. Especially coming up with me. “Guest”

    (They do real air-quotes.)

Sort of an alter ego. Or not an alter ego, but like what’s that Shakespeare line about holding a mirror up to nature? Who said that – Hamlet? It was probably Hamlet. Hamlet got all the good lines.  God I would love to play Hamlet.

    (dramatically)

The melancholy prince!

Now there’s a role you could really sink your teeth into. “To be or not…” y’know?

 Sound of something being dropped/crashing offstage. We hear Dan cursing:

           DAN

    (off)

Shit! Fuck…

 Guest moves off into the wings. The stage is empty. We hear their dialogue faintly:

 GUEST

(off)

What happened? Can I help? Do you need / any-

 DAN

(off)

It’s fine. I don’t think I lost too much of the filling, I can clean it, try to salvage… Just what are you talking about out there?

           GUEST

    (off, quickly)

What? Nothing. Normal subjects. Innocuous.   Inconsequential, really. No one complaining at all.

           DAN

    (off)

Well, get back out there. I mean it’s gotta be boring for the audience just an empty stage. They’re probably confused. Or just irritated. I’ll be out in a minute.

           GUEST

    (off)

Ok… Are you / sure?

           DAN

    (off)

Yeah, yeah, go. This is dead air! Or whatever the stage equivalent I don’t know is.

 Guest returns. A lost little puppy for a sec.

           GUEST

Dan’s got it, I guess. Under control.

    (mission control/radio voice)

Repeat: the situation is under control. The situation is under-…

 Guest trails off, that sudden silly-happy spirit gone as quickly as it came. Lost again. Beat. Then quietly:

         GUEST

Hey, do you wanna hear a story? Or not even a story but like more of an anecdote? Or not even an anecdote but just something I noticed about me recently? It was when I was getting my hair cut. I go to one of those cheapy-y places so generic I can’t even remember the name of it. Great Clips…? Smart Cuts…? I don’t know, not important. I just noticed that I am the worst at hair stylist chit-chat. Like they try to engage me in, you know, very general-type topics. BROAD: we’re talking local sports, TV shows, friendly, nothing too personal or that would force you to “out” yourself on any particular controversial issues. Like they’re not hitting me with where I stand on a woman’s right to choose.  I’m in favor obviously but - I mean a woman’s body is her own… thing.  But I’m getting off topic.  The point is the normal chit-chat thing people do so effortlessly? Small-talk, right, you would call it?  I can’t. I can’t.  I am just incapable for whatever reason of sustaining for any length of time, you know, beyond the perfunctory responses of, just basic like “Good.” “Yeah.” “Sure.”

A for instance or example?

One time I’m sitting there, in the chair, the barber’s, and I’m wearing a Star Wars t-shirt. Pretty much my usual get-up, Star Wars or something superhero related…

 (Important Note: however Guest is costumed, it must be explicit in how they are styled that they would never, under any circumstances, wear Star Wars or other geek related apparel. They are just not that person. To put it more bluntly, Guest is lying right now.)

 GUEST

…I’m kind of a geek that way. Or just really, really set in my ways. Like I want to be able to reach into my drawer in the morning and grab a shirt and not have to worry about it, like I’ll look down and I won’t even know what I put on but it’s okay ‘cause it’s  “Hey, cool, Spider-Man.”

 Anyways, I’m wearing a Star Wars shirt. And I sit down and the first thing-

 Well, I mean let’s just take a moment to acknowledge that it can’t be easy for the stylist either. I mean I’m sure when they go to beauty school or whatever they’re not given lengthy courses on social discourse. But a big part of their job is to be this talkative, you know, outgoing, to engage the customer, to build a rapport in that thirty minutes or an hour not much time, so that 1) the customer feels safe, you know, reasonably sure this total stranger with a sharp object isn’t going to just stab them in the eye, or slit their throat Sweeney Todd style, but is also a professional who’s gonna make them look good. And secondly, the haircut industry being a gratuity-inclusive system, they want you to like them because they make more if you like them, the idea being here that a lot of time when you get a haircut, you’re pretty much just looking for the same thing you got last time, so what you’re really judging them on is personality. How were they personally with you.  I mean am I wrong? I don’t think so, but speak up now or forever hold your peace.

 No but it’s, I guess what I’m trying to say is it takes two to tango. And the conversation, if that other person’s not giving, usually the customer… oh, it’s death. It is death to sit through. For both parties. Because there’s that forced feel to everything, like you’re not in Great Clips anymore but the dentist, ‘cause it’s like pulling teeth. Ugh!

 But anyway, back to my story. So I was sitting there, or I was sitting down, they’d just called my name. And the stylist – and isn’t it that they always tell you their names and you even shake hands but I can never remember – the stylist says, she notices my shirt and says, “Oh did you see that new Star Wars movie?” A completely non-loaded, just chit-chatty question. And my response is, I go “Yeah…” and sort of trail off, “Yeah, yeah…” totally non-committal. So then she asks if I liked it, a natural follow-up, and I just say, “Yeah, it was okay.” Again, the most wishy-washy bullshit response. I don’t elaborate, I don’t ask if she’s seen it, I don’t ask if she’s more of Star Wars person or Star Trek, or a million other lines of inquiry I could have gone down, I don’t say anything, I don’t engage her back, I just leave her there hanging, this perfectly nice, just-doing-her-job, just trying to get through her shift, you know, vary the days- and I always tip well, I always tip like five bucks, it’s not that it’s just- I feel like I’m not holding up my end of the bargain here. Y’know?

 And the reasons for that are… well, they’re… they probably just come down to me being so introverted. Like that’s just my wiring, that’s just how I’m built. And it’s sucky, it… yeah. Kind of debilitating.

    (Pause. Guest makes sad trombone sound:)

Wah-wah.

    (Pause. Then as Dan re-enters)

But it’s not like I can just stop getting my hair cut either.

 Dan enters with a large mixing bowl covered by saran wrap.

 DAN

    (overhearing)

What about a haircut?

He sets the bowl on the table.

           GUEST

Oh, nothing. Just some sad pathetic story I was telling them.

           DAN

It wasn’t boring was it?

 GUEST

    (considers that)

I don’t think so. Introspective, sort of rambling…

    (to audience)

I don’t know, what did you all think? Did you think my story was boring? Or maybe it held some special significance for you, was RELATABLE even…?

           DAN

A haircut – how is that relatable?

           GUEST

Well, we all get haircuts don’t we?

           DAN

Most people, yeah…

           GUEST

Well, see. There you go. There you are.

           DAN

    (mocking, lightly)

There I am.

           Dan exits again.

           GUEST

Where are you going now?

           DAN

    (off)

Just a few more things. I only have two hands.

           GUEST

I said I would help.

           DAN

    (off)

I know.

    (returning)

I know.

 Dan carries on a plate with two spoons, two forks, and a thick stack of pre-moistened dumpling wrappers. Everything goes on the table.

 GUEST

Smells good.

           DAN

That’s the filling, yeah.

           GUEST

What’s in it?

           DAN

Mushrooms and cabbage.

           GUEST

MMMMM. All chopped up together?

           DAN

Yeah/

           GUEST

Cooked or?

           DAN

Yeah, sauteed.

           GUEST

Can I try it?

           DAN

…Sure.

           GUEST

Is that ok?

           DAN

Yeah go ahead.

 Guest removes the saran wrap from the bowl and, using one of the forks, brings a mouthful of filling from to their lips and blows on it.

 DAN

It’s not hot.

           GUEST

Oh.

    (Guest tries the filling. Nodding)

Mmmm. Oh. Yeaaaah.

           DAN

Good?

           GUEST

Yeah, really. I can’t wait to try it in the actual dumplings.

           DAN

Then let’s get started.

 Dan sits down and starts to lay out the materials. Guest joins them at the table.

 GUEST

You seem more in a chipper mood than when we last saw you.

           DAN

Well, I took some time backstage to think about things.

           GUEST

Like what?

           DAN

Just my general outlook on our relationship. The dynamic we share.

           GUEST

And what conclusion did you come to about that?

           DAN

That you’re not really my antagonist in this thing.

           GUEST

How profound.

           DAN

And even when you make comments like that, “How profound”, which could read like you’re trying to get at me, needle me into blowing up again, this big reaction, you’re IN ACTUALITY doing me a favor.

           GUEST

A favor.

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

What kind?

           DAN

Well, you’re supposed to be like that little voice inside my head, right? You know the one: that I argue with, that’s always criticizing me, making me feel bad, guilty, or just shitty; that overanalyzes every interaction, stretching moments, obsessing over the minutest; that worries me, panics me, berates me, frustrates me, makes me feel like the most disgusting human being for even thinking that, scares me into a corner, then fucks with me taunting me from the dark.

           Beat.

           GUEST

And that’s who I am?

           DAN

Well yeah, pretty much. You’re an instigator, right? A rabble rouser; a provocateur.

           GUEST

Don’t get foreign with me.

    (pause)

So if I’m not the antagonist – which, let’s be honest, your description of me doesn’t entirely jive with if I’m always this critical apparition, I don’t know if that’s the word you’d use but – this kind of identity in your life, causing you stress and, just creating all sorts of turmoil for you. So if I’m not that, DESPITE what you claim, what does that not make you: the hero?

           DAN

Exactly. I think we’re really blurring the lines here into a grey area of, of thinking about character.

           GUEST

Awesome, ‘cause everyone loves the color grey so much. Grey really pops.

           DAN

I love you.

           GUEST

Oh shut the fuck up, are you high?        

            DAN

What??

           GUEST

No seriously, are you on something? Right now?

           DAN

…no.

           GUEST

You hesitated.

           DAN

Only a beat. And it was because your accusation is totally ridiculous-

           GUEST

Why?

           DAN

Because I’M NOT.

           GUEST

The lady doth protest too much I think.

           DAN

The lady doth protest as much as it takes when she’s TELLING the TRUTH.

           GUEST

Your mood.

           DAN

What about / it?

           GUEST

Just like you flipped a switch. And people don’t have swings like that all willy-nilly, apropos of nothing.

           DAN

What about bipolars?

           GUEST

We’re not TALKING about people who spend half their year living in the ARCTIC CIRCLE.

Now something kicked you in the ass mood-wise, and if you think I’m just going to let you get away / with it again-

           DAN

Get away with what? / With what again?

           GUEST

With turning this into another hospital-hostility situation, it’s NOT gonna happen. NO LIES-

           DAN

But I didn’t, I… there was nothing-

           GUEST

BullSHIT, Dan. Now what is it? You don’t seem drunk.

           DAN

I’m not.

           GUEST

    (finding the bottle they brought onstage)

And neither was I for that matter. That was merely a clever acting ruse for yours and the audience’s amusement.

           DAN

Don’t you mean a-RUSE-ment?

 Dan smiles gleefully. Guest starts to crack, and it takes all of their willpower to keep them from smiling too.

 GUEST

You will not – break me – with bad puns.

           DAN

But they’re your weakness.

           GUEST

No, they’re YOURS.

           DAN

Touché.

           GUEST

    (pause)

The fact you just said “touché” like that, with that little smirk on your face, totally un-ironical, means you’re DEFINITELY on something. You are UP.

           DAN

Better than down.

           GUEST

Stop turning everything around, that’s just easy! Stop quipping!

           DAN

    (channeling Devo)

When a problem comes alone, you must quip it!

Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo

Quip it good!

           GUEST

I will fucking hit you.

Plus I think they already made that joke in one of the Austin Powers movies, so kudos for the retread.

           DAN

Well, it’s a popular song.

           GUEST

You can’t stop.

           DAN

I can, I’m just choosing not to. The shoe’s on the other foot now and if you can’t take the heat maybe you shouldn’t have chosen to vacation on the sun.

           GUEST

You’re insufferable. You INVITED me here-

           DAN

Oh sorry, am I not being a good host? Let me get your coat…

 Dan moves to remove Guest’s non-existent jacket. It almost gets physical as Guest shakes him off.

They stare at each other for a beat, Dan grinning, Guest more nervous and worried than anything.

 DAN

    (calculated)

By the way, nice haircut.

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

Oh, you just look like you got your hair cut recently. For that matter, so do I. Because I did. For the show. It was getting pretty shaggy.

           GUEST

Ok…

           Silence.

           DAN

So did you get your hair cut or what?

           GUEST

…Yeah. Yes.

           DAN

Sharp.  Sharp ‘do.

           GUEST

I don’t like you like this.

           DAN

Like what?

           GUEST

On the attack.

           DAN

Have I attacked you?

           GUEST

No, but you’re stalking me like I’m your fucking prey.

           DAN

You know there’s not some invisible sound-proof barrier between the stage and the wings, right? That I could hear every word of your little “monologue”?

 And this time he actually does the air-quotes thing.

 GUEST

So?

           DAN

So that wasn’t you. It was me. That was my story you told, passed off as your own. MY awkwardness. I’M the one who doesn’t know how to talk when I’m getting a haircut. I’M the one with no small talk game. YOU on the other hand…

         But he stops, relishing the moment.

           GUEST

Me on the other hand what?

           DAN

You’re personable. Not exactly an extrovert, but certainly less introverted.

           GUEST

That’s not true. Sometimes-

           DAN

No, all the time. That’s your character.

           GUEST

Says you.

           DAN

Says me, yes.

           GUEST

But not even you.

           DAN  

Y’know, for the sake of argument, can we just dispense with the whole metatexual, what’s-real-and-what’s-not thing and just play the dramatic moment for real, straight. Can we do that? Can you?

           GUEST

I’m game.

           DAN

Good. Thank you.

           GUEST

Welcome.

           DAN

So we started off the evening you attacking me. Now the tide has turned and you’re on the defensive. So what? The world’s unfair. You ask for sympathy, you expect anyone to / with you right now, sympathize?

           GUEST

No, but you were lying. You started lying. / You LIED.

           DAN

I never / lied.

           GUEST

Hospital not hostility.

The backstage thing cuts both ways you son of a bitch, I could hear everything you said too, your little slip and subsequent confession-

           DAN

So?

           GUEST

So you can admit it to them

    (re: audience)

And not to me?

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

Why? Why not to me? Because you’ve lost enough face anyway tonight, what’s a nostril more?

           DAN

    (pause)

It’s embarrassing.

           GUEST

That’s not what you said an hour ago or whenever it was. You said it was pointless. You said it was a mistake anyone could make. A typo.

           DAN

But you kept persisting-

           GUEST

Only after you immediately went on the defensive.

           DAN

No, no, before that you had already been on me. Poking at me with little… just breaking up my momentum, these little interjections, picking at me.

           GUEST

I thought that was my function.

           DAN

Yes and no.

           GUEST

How yes and how no?

           DAN

We’re naturally combative. Not just you, me too. And the back and forth, if we’re not nipping at each other’s heels the whole way… well, it wouldn’t be very interesting, would it? Not much of a scene.

           GUEST

Sure.

           DAN

You agree?

           GUEST

I concur.

           DAN

So that… you do… you are here for that reason. To challenge me. To present an obstacle to what I want.

           GUEST

Wait, what do you want?

    (Silence.)

Are you going to tell me? Do you even know?

           DAN

I do, it’s just not an easy question.

           GUEST

I think you mean it’s not an easy answer.

           DAN

See? To the end we’re like this. At each other. We can’t help it. No,

           BOTH

    (not precisely in unison)

We were written this way.

           Silence for a long beat.

           GUEST

What do you want, Dan?

           DAN

To make something.

           GUEST

What something?

           DAN

Just something good.

           GUEST

That’s vague.

Are you implying you want to do something with your art?

           DAN

Maybe.

           GUEST

That would… that kind of has to do with the hospital, doesn’t it?

           DAN

No.

           GUEST

The hospital didn’t make you stop and reevaluate your life?

           DAN

Of course it did, / but-

           GUEST

Then what’s the problem?

           DAN

I’m not ready to tell that story.

           Beat.

           GUEST

I know.

           DAN

And it was just a coincidence…

           GUEST

I know.

           DAN

…Typing, it was a typo…

           GUEST

I know.

           DAN

Then why did you seize on it like you did? Just relentless-

           GUEST

Because it’s in the script. It says I have to. The lines are right there.    

(then)

And I’m nothing if not professional.

           DAN

Very good.

           GUEST

Thanks. Thanks for having me. Though I’d be remiss if I didn’t say I was a little bummed you not telling the hospital story.

           DAN

Another time. Another show.

           GUEST

Can I come back for that one?

           DAN

We’ll see. It’s gotta be right.

           GUEST

Ugh! Perfectionist. Can’t you just sell-out and tell big heart-warming stories that the masses flock to like lemmings?

           DAN

Not my style, unfortunately.

           GUEST

So what do we do til then?

           DAN

Til what?

           GUEST

Til you open up and can tell that other story.

           DAN

Just wait I guess.

           GUEST

The Hospital Story. A New Play by Dan Story.

           DAN

Now it’s my turn to say ugh. I hate that title.

           GUEST

Change it.

           DAN

Ooo! I am good at titles. / Like this other play I’m writing,

           GUEST

You say that so un-modestly.

           DAN

    (continuing)

this play Drones, all about this couple stuck in a rut, just doing the same thing, the same mundane, so they’re basically drones. But it’s when this drone hits their house – actually crashes through their dining room window – that it’s this big, it creates this seismic shift / that-      

         GUEST

Your basic inciting incident, sure.

           DAN

So it’s not a revolutionary concept. I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel.

           GUEST

That’s a relief, because I’m pretty sure they got that right on the first pass.

 Dan stares at Guest, a tight amused smile.    

 DAN

To the end.

           GUEST

The very bitterest.

    (an idea)

Here.

           Guest offers the wine bottle to Dan.

           DAN

But it’s empty.

           GUEST

Pretend.

           DAN

Pretend to drink air?

           GUEST

You’re an actor, right? You pretended to smile there a second ago. You’re smiling now.

           DAN

Because I actually feel like smiling.

           GUEST

Me too.

 They look at each other, smiling. Long pause, then breaking:

 GUEST

That was so fucking cheesy.

           DAN

I know, I can’t believe he made us do that.

           GUEST

Let’s sit down.

           DAN

    (“yes”)

PLEASE.

 They sit. Dan looks inside the bottle skeptically, sniffs. Then he “drinks”.

 DAN

    (“thirst quenched”)

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh…

 GUEST

    (taking the bottle from him)

Give me that.

           Guest drinks. They laugh.

 DAN

So maybe we should actually make these dumplings.

           GUEST

Yeah, not the worst idea. I mean all the materials are present and accounted for. Would be a waste.

           DAN

Shall I show you?

           GUEST

I am putty in your hands. Teach me, Sensei.

           DAN

Again with the racism?

           GUEST

How is sensei racist?

           DAN

You’re not Asian!

           GUEST

For your information, my karate teacher when I was a kid was white.

           DAN

And you called him sensei?

           GUEST

No, we called him Dale and he owned a jewelry store. Always wore this thick gold chain under his gi.  Actually he was kind of an asshole.

           DAN

Yeah he was.

           More laughter.

           GUEST

So: where do we start?

           DAN

Well, first you gotta set yourself up a little dumpling assembly station.

           GUEST

Which consists of?

           DAN

    (displaying items)

Well, you’ll need a mat. A fork. A spoon. A small bowl of luke-warm water. The dumpling filling, of course. And the wrappers.

           GUEST

Check, check, and check.

 The lights start a very slow fade to black, and will finally go out at the end of the play. Dan demonstrates, Guest following his instructions.

           DAN

So you use your spoon… no, your spoon, not the fork – and spoon a small amount of filling into the center of the dumpling wrapper?

           GUEST

    (re: dumpling wrappers)

These are hard to get apart.

           DAN

Yeah, separating them can be… just take your / time…

           GUEST

Got it. So just a single spoonful?

           DAN

Yeah, not too much, or you won’t be able to close the dumpling over it. That’s good.

           GUEST

Ok, so then you fold…

           DAN

Yeah. Wait, I missed a step, don’t close it yet.

           GUEST

What?

           DAN

The bowl full of water, you have to wet the edges first. Around the edge of the wrapper-

           GUEST

Oh. Ok.

           DAN

Again, just a little, you don’t want to soak it, but otherwise the wrapper won’t stick together. There, good.

           GUEST

So now fold it.

           DAN

Yes.

           GUEST

And then I think I know what the fork’s for.

           DAN

Yeah, well, I mean you’ve seen a dumpling before. So you just seal it around the edge, pressing down with the…

           GUEST

Cool.

 Guest has completed making a single dumpling.

           DAN

And there you have it. Wah-lah, you made a dumpling.

           GUEST

    (weirdly proud)

Yeah.

    (pause, then)

Only technically isn’t this more of a potsticker?

           DAN

Really?

 But before they can get into it again, the lights have gone out.

 Music. Bows.

 End of play.

[dailyhealthynews]

Mum loses 12 stone eating ‘fakeaways’ after spending £400 a month on pizza and KFC

A single mother of three who used to spend £ 400 a month on takeaways has now lost 12 stones.

Donna Griffith’s weight reached 22nd place, and that’s when she knew she had to do something – but even she was shocked at how much weight she’d lost creating her own take-away favorites at home.

Donna’s weight skyrocketed as she started eating snacks on a regular basis – but instead of giving up her favorite foods to lose weight, she decided to create her own range of healthy “fakeaway” meals instead.

Donna lost a staggering 12th place in just six months, taking her from a size 26 to a slim size 8.

Donna Griffiths, 37, who lost over 10 stones by trading takeaways for fakeaways and taking up hoola hooping. The mother of three from Cardigan, West Wales now has a successful Instagram account where she posts about her diet and exercise. Image: Rowan Griffiths

The 37-year-old told MirrorOnline, “I’ve tried countless diets that made me feel at a disadvantage, so I decided to accept my love for takeaway rather than reject it.”

Donna, who was spending around £ 400 a month on takeaways, decided it was high time to swap her regular KFC, kebabs, and burgers for tasty homemade versions.

So the single mom started researching healthy eating tips and combining them with elements of various diets and weight loss plans that she had tried previously.

Before long, Donna – who also started hula hooping an hour a day – had her first delicious low-fat recipe.

She decided to document her weight loss journey on Instagram, where her simple dishes – made with leaner staples like Weight Watchers Wraps and Frylight Cooking Oil Spray – soon earned her an army of fans.

And after receiving countless messages of support from people all over the world, Donna believes she has finally found her “calling”.

“I’ve always loved food to the point of obsession,” she said.

“I just loved all the foods we all know we shouldn’t eat, and I didn’t have an off switch.

“I had a huge fried breakfast, five sugars in my coffee, endless bars of chocolate… but my real Achilles heel was greasy takeaways.

“Instead of fighting it, I figured that if I’m smart, I don’t have to feel like a martyr.”

Caption: Slimmer loses 12th place in weight loss and still enjoys takeaway credit: Spicentice

Donna said she often ordered a large doner kebab and family-size pizza just for her or a Chinese takeout meal with a large serving of fries on top.

It was not uncommon for her to go to bed physically ill from eating so much. But it wasn’t until after the birth of her third child two years ago that she knew there was something to be given.

“I saw myself in the mirror and just hated what I had become,” she said.

“I knew I was on the quickest path to orphaning my children and I was broke.”

Inspired by her mother Sharon, who recently lost 3rd place, Donna signed up for weekly classes.

But she said, “I realized that I had been on so many diets that I could take the best of them all and make a diet that worked for me.

“Creating my fakeaways has become my absolute obsession, along with my rapidly shrinking body as evidence of what they can accomplish.

“I couldn’t afford a gym or spend too much time without my kids, so I bought a £ 10 hula hoop on eBay.

“Basically, I wanted to show that losing weight can be cheap and easy. Soon I weighed less than when I was 10 – and it was a lot of fun. “

Donna, the mother of Jayden, nine, Jessie, seven, and two-year-old Jack, said the physical and mental toll of being pregnant and then raising their children alone fueled her junk food addiction.

“I was a little chubby as a teenager,” she says. “But the moment I left home and started ‘eating for two,’ along with the often overwhelming boredom of breastfeeding and caring for toddlers, I began to self-destruct.”

Donna remembered a midwife warning her that her weight would endanger the health of her unborn child.

She was advised to eat strawberries instead of her usual family-sized Galaxy chocolate, but Donna admits that she replied, “Only when I can have them in a bowl of sugar!”

The mother visited the hospital regularly during her pregnancies because of concerns about her high blood pressure – but Donna admits she “dodged a bullet” when all three of her children were born healthy.

The freshly slim mom, who also maintains the weight through regular long walks near her house in Cardigan, Ceredigion, has no regrets that she decided to lose weight.

She said, “Every single aspect of my life has changed in the past two years. I am the mother my children deserve and the woman I should always have been. “

Continue reading

On the subject of matching items

Continue reading

On the subject of matching items

Donna’s fakeaway meals: Nacho Mountain

A mom of three who spent £ 400 a month on takeaways dropped a staggering 12 stones in six months after swapping her eating habits for low-calorie fakeaways. Single mom Donna Griffiths knew things had to change when her weight finally hit 22 stones if she was to be fit enough to run around with her kids.

ingredients

WeightWatchers cases

Fry light edible oils pray 2tsp onion granules

2 teaspoons of paprika

salt and pepper

For the salsa:

4 tomatoes peeled and chopped

Half a finely diced red onion

1 grated clove of garlic

Small bunch of chopped coriander

Splash of white wine vinegar

Squeeze out the lime juice

50g low-fat cheddar cheese, grated

Jalapeño peppers

Old El Paso guacamole

Extra light cheese triangle

Chili powder

● Cut the wraps into eight pieces, sprinkle with Fry light, sprinkle with onion granules and paprika and cook in the oven for a few minutes until crispy.

● To make the homemade salsa, whisk together tomatoes, onions, garlic, coriander, white wine vinegar and lime juice in a blender, then add low-fat cheddar cheese, jalapenos and 1 tablespoon of Old El Paso guacamole.

● Finally, make your chilli cheese sauce by melting the cheese triangle in the microwave with a dash of water for 30 seconds and adding chilli powder to taste.

Donna’s kebab night

A mom of three who spent £ 400 a month on takeaways dropped a staggering 12 stones in six months after swapping her eating habits for low-calorie fakeaways. Single mom Donna Griffiths knew things had to change when her weight finally hit 22 stones if she was to be fit enough to run around with her kids.

5 chicken legs cut in half

1 teaspoon each of paprika

Onion and garlic granules

Oregano, chili powder and cumin

Splash of lemon juice

Half a red cabbage, thinly sliced

A small red onion, thinly sliced

1 tbsp white wine vinegar

salt and pepper

1 onion, peeled and cut off at the bottom

Pepper, chopped into 3 pieces

Whole grain pitta bread

● Marinate the chicken in the spices, lemon juice, and salt and pepper for 30 minutes.

● Prepare sauerkraut by mixing it with the sliced ​​onion, white wine vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, salt and pepper and marinate in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

● Next, stick three skewers in an onion and thread the marinated chicken legs onto the skewers, then top with the peppers. Wrap foil around to keep the juices in. Bake in the oven at 220 ° C for 30 minutes

● After the oven, cut the chicken into slices, slice the onion and paprika and serve in a wholemeal pitta with pickled red cabbage.

Spicy burger

A mom of three who spent £ 400 a month on takeaways dropped a staggering 12 stones in six months after swapping her eating habits for low-calorie fakeaways. Single mom Donna Griffiths knew things had to change when her weight finally hit 22 stones if she was to be fit enough to run around with her kids.

1 large chicken breast

1 egg

30g Doritos Heatwave Chips

A potato, grated

1 teaspoon onion granules

Frying oil

Corn on the cob

whole-grain bread rolls

Iceberg lettuce

Light mayo

Cheese slice

● Cut the chicken breast in half to form two roughly round pieces. Tender with a rolling pin.

● Dip in egg, then in the minced Doritos, then bake in the oven at 200 ° C for 25 minutes.

● For the rösti, pre-cook the grated potato, add 1 teaspoon onion granulate to the rest of the egg.

Spray on a squirt of Frylight, shape into a patty, and bake for 15 minutes, or until golden brown.

● Boil your corn on the cob for 10 minutes.

● Pop your burger in a whole wheat bun, add lettuce and 1 tablespoon mayonnaise. Add a slice of cheese and Mayflower Southern Style sauce.

source https://dailyhealthynews.ca/mum-loses-12-stone-eating-fakeaways-after-spending-400-a-month-on-pizza-and-kfc/

[ecotone99]

[RF] Foodie (~4500 words)

Warning: Contains some violence, as well as swearing and some mention of sex. I don't think this is very risqué, but I submitted it recently for a creative writing class. Most students liked it, but one guy thought I should've warned people before they read it. So I'm erring on the side of caution.

Also, some may consider this horror. I do not, and so I didn't tag it as such.

​

Foodie

Carol Wilkenson was a foodie. It was a title she wore with pride, the way other women her age might casually mention that they or their spouse were chiropractors or paralegals. Tell me about yourself, Doug had asked on their first date. Her answer was as obvious as it was immediate.

It was their twentieth anniversary. Carol marked it on the calendar in bold red sharpie, her mouth turning into a cheshire grin as she X’ed out the box. Today was not going to be just another Wednesday. Today there would be romance. Today there would be sex—and not just of the five minute variety. Today there would be a wonderful dinner, prepared by Carol, as she had nearly every night since her honeymoon. And perhaps most importantly: today she would cook not out of habit or familial obligation, as had happened every afternoon for the past few years, but with that elusive magic ingredient her mother always told her about: love. That invisible spice that makes everything smell; taste; feel more vibrant and linger in your memory for years after it happened; playing like a tableau vivant in your mouth. The spice that had for so long been scarce was ready to be recaptured.

Doug joined her for breakfast. He picked up the sports section. And said:

“Good news: the Bills are making the playoffs.”

She smiled. She thought he was joking. Then, he courteously thanked her for breakfast, as he had every day since their honeymoon, tightened his tie, and walked cheerily out the door.

It was only after the screen door screeched to a halt that Carol realized she had broken her honey dipper. Its neck lay strangled in two pieces, one of which bit into her palm. Some of her blood mixed with the honey remaining from Doug’s cursory oatmeal.

“Oh dear.”

Carol sucked on her palm (the honey and blood made it sweet and salty, like some exotic fruit), threw the honey dipper in the trash, and washed her hands, careful not to drive the few remaining splinters further into her skin. She bandaged the wound. Then, she woke up Meg and sent her off to school. Carol insisted that her daughter eat some kind of nutritious breakfast, but she only settled for the desultory Honey Bunches of Oats.

She wished Meg would eat more out of her comfort zone. But Meg did not share her adventurous spirit. A few years ago they had a trip to Bangkok for something involving Doug’s work. Carol didn’t remember exactly what. Doug brought the family along, which made it an exciting opportunity for Meg to learn about other cultures and imbue in her a love of food. But whatever they ordered (on big communal platters, common for Asian restaurants), no matter how exotic or mundane, Meg took one bite, slid her plate back, and said “I’m good.” And Doug was somehow worse; she shuddered to think of the memory.

“Have a good day!” she called out to the bus, which was patiently waiting with its STOP sign extended like an enthusiastic middle finger. Meg didn’t look back.

Carol hung her head and busied herself in the kitchen. It was still her anniversary, and she and Doug would have the best goddarn dinner the two of them ever had. And they’ve had many excellent meals. In Venetion diners and Parisian cafes. Black risotto and escargot. Frog legs and couscous. Cajun food that upset Doug’s stomach so much that he couldn’t handle a second bite. All the organic, orgasmic food they ate in all the wonderful, envious places they traveled. Before she made a pitstop in her local Walgreens. And that little plastic stick showed two lines, not one.

They stopped traveling and settled down. They couldn’t raise a kid on the go, in cramped hotel rooms and seedy bathroom changing stations. Still, Carol had loved her career as a photojournalist. It took her to all the places where the best cuisine was hiding. Some of her work was pretty well reviewed too, making waves in the small and esoteric community of photojournalism.

But that wasn’t compatible with a child. The last interesting thing she ate—interesting and good, not the Arbys that gave her food poisoning—was her daughter’s placenta. It was mostly made of blood cells, and was entirely tasteless. She finished it more for curiosity’s sake than enjoyment factor, but it only made her long for the savory, dramatic dishes of years past. As she had sat there, unenthusiastically consuming, she felt like a cow that chews its own cud. Then, there was Doug, who had walked into the kitchen at just the wrong time. He saw the placenta, opened from its styrofoam box that the hospital sent home, per her request, like a perverse McDonalds Happy Meal. Then, he had made a face—the same fucking face—as Bangkok.

Her daughter’s bowl shattered against the fridge.

“Fuck you!” she screamed at the picture of Doug, pinned with a magnet and now soaking in spilled milk. Like the milk puddling on the pool, regret immediately seeped in.

“Oh, God. I didn’t mean it.”

Unconsciously, she bit the back of her hand. Chewing it, testing the muscles and tendons as her fingers flexed. It was an unconscious habit of hers, like Meg when she bit her nails or Doug when he pulled at his tie. She never bit too deeply, just massaged the back of her hand with her teeth. Feeling her teeth grind across the heel of her hand, fleshy as a ripe apple and underlain with tendons taut like piano wire. Her habit was a strange one, but not unheard of. She figured it was the same self-affirming way an infant sucked its thumb; built from a natural yearn to find comfort using the only means at its disposal.

She heard that fingers snap with the same strength it takes to crack a baby carrot. It was an interesting thought: that such a precious instrument, the nimble and adroit hand, could break so easily. Dipped in hummus and eaten like just another Super Bowl dish. She wondered, fleetingly yet not for the first time, what human tastes like.

It was surprising that she didn’t already know. Over the years, she had sampled a king’s ransom of dishes. On her trip to Venezuela, building houses for those displaced in Hurricane Isidore, she was offered local meals from the grateful inhabitants: goat’s blood and guinea pig, the first of which was customary, the latter of which was a delicacy. She gratefully accepted both. Neither was particularly good, but at least she tried them, and that was the ethos of being a foodie, she had explained to Doug. Five years later, they went to the New York State Fair. Doug, hungry and unwilling to wait for their reservations at Le Pamplemousse, a fancy french restaurant twenty minutes from the fairground, bought a stick of fried butter. He offered her half. When she refused, he educated her on the ethos of being a foodie. She chewed. She swallowed.

In a moment of curiosity, she turned to Google for answers. What does human taste like?

After fifteen minutes of patient scrolling and several clickbaity headlines, she found out that humans tasted, strangely enough, like pork. You probably wouldn’t taste the difference if served side by side, the website explained. Is that a challenge? Carol jokingly thought. With her foodie taste buds, she was certain she could sniff out the difference. Not that she would ever try, though. As if.

While she thoroughly wiped the picture of Doug, Carol apologized to his image. She didn’t hold anything against her husband. Nothing. On the contrary, he had supported her in hard times. When her father passed. When she had her second pregnancy scare, this one (thankfully) false. And of course, his constant companionship to all those places—Marseille and Istanbul and Galway and Marrakesh.

The last of the ceramic fragments were deposited in the trash. The milk was puddled up with a dish towel, then thrown in the laundry bin. Carol got back to work.

Last month she was skimming through the Food Network and came across a fascinating recipe: hot and sour soup. She had always wanted to try it out, but never got around to it. Paired with her signature linguine and clam sauce—a dish that always appealed to Doug’s taste, the Wilkensons could have a perfect anniversary dinner. She went to the pantry, which was overflowing with jams and spices after twenty years of marriage, and selected her ingredients.

White pepper. Onions. Vinegar. Bottled mushrooms. Jarred olives. Some shrimp from the fridge. Mozzarella slices. Bits of chicken, diced like cheese. Eggs, but not too many; she didn’t want her final product to be too “slushy.”

As she mixed, chopped, sautéred, and cooked, she cheerily hummed All You Need Is Love to herself, a song that played at her wedding.

She finished the soup and went to work on the linguine with clam sauce, which by now was as habitual as brushing her teeth while Rachel Maddow gave her the news. She lingered in the pantry and brought out her spices—fourteen in all, although Doug admitted that he could only taste three. By now, she had calculated that it took two trips to the pantry for linguini, and one perusal of the fridge.

Spaghetti and bowtie pasta, finely mixed. Olive oil. More onions. A clove of garlic. Lemon juice. Parsley. A dash of Maruso soy sauce. A sprinkle of salt. Tomato sauce, but not too much. Minced clams.

Lastly, Carol went to the cellar and brought up a bottle of Château Margaux. At half a grand, it was the most expensive wine they owned, a wedding present from Doug’s childhood friend, some rich Wall Street guy named Joe, not yet humbled by the crisis of ‘07. Doug had stuck it in the basement, saving the bottle for a special occasion. Carol figured two decades was time enough at last, and stuck it in the fridge.

Oh dear! She thought with a start. I almost forgot the carrots!

She looked at the kitchen clock. It was three minutes short, but Carol realized it was nearly four. Where had the time gone? Doug would be getting back from the office around now. Meg would soon join them—she had soccer practice until five. A teammate’s mom was driving her home.

Carol cursed herself for the two hours she spent watching The Crown while letting the chicken thaw, then cook. As she hurried to chop the carrots, her mind wandered again to Olivia Coleman, venerable and austere as Elizabeth II. Carol was so far removed from all those ladies in the show, who would never burden themselves with housework (they had servants for that), but instead perform diplomatic duties, making speeches and traveling to foreign countries. To Carol, it was more and more unlikely she would ever work or travel again. After her stint as a photojournalist, she worked at home for a couple years, putting her English degree to use writing advice columns in a American Woman, a near-unheard of women's magazine. My boyfriend left, someone would write in. My husband’s not talking to me. She always gave some fancy variation of the same answer, which could be distilled to: Get a grip, girl! You’re a grown-ass woman. Take charge of your life.

Now she felt like a terrible hypocrite, an unemployed housewife with no career prospects, fussing over the thickness of Doug’s hot and sour soup. She paused from chopping carrots, bit her hand, then resumed the task. How could she have ever had the audacity to write such advice?

It had been 2007 when she quit the magazine, when Meg entered the terrible twos and ate up all her time. For the time being, she had said to Doug. But they both knew it was permanent. After an exciting and successful career as a photojournalist, anything less was cripplingly depressing. Better nothing than something less. And they both knew it wasn’t Meg’s fault. If it was, she would’ve had an abortion. She was an independent woman. Neither of their families were picky about things like that. It was just… they both knew—although neither he nor her said anything—that they’d have to stop traveling and settle down. Grow up. Move on with their lives. It was time.

It was time.

“FUCK!”

She looked down at her hand, spouting blood from the tip of her pinkie finger like a water balloon with a hole. The knife rattled against the cutting board. Blood trickled on top of the cut carrots like the decorative sauce drizzled over hors d'oeuvres at some fancy eatery. Carol knew from years of restaurant experience that this was called plating. The top of her pinkie lay with the carrots; just another delicacy.

She hurriedly covered her hand with a wad of paper towels. It soaked through.

She rushed to the bathroom and threw open the door above the sink. Toothbrushes and bottles of aspirin clattered into the sink as she found the bandages. Wielding her teeth like some disgruntled animal, she tore open the box of bandages, then struggled with the waxy strip, tears welling in her eyes and blank black painspots eating up the foreground.

When the bandage was on and she felt healed enough to move, Carol wiped up the blood. Much of it was dried and black.

Black as elderberries.

Carol looked over to the cutting board. The carrots lay there, all in a row, quiet as a crime scene. She used the knife, still bloody, to scrape the bleeding carrots into the trash. Then she stopped. The finger was still there, an unpainted nail like a postal stamp in the corner of the cutting board. It clung on by a sticky glob of blood. Carol recalled a time when she read Meg a book of scary children’s stories.

(Meg was really into that stuff as a kid, and Doug thought something might be off with her, as if she was destined to become the first female serial killer.)

As one story went, there was a boy who ate some soup with a toe in it. After dinner, he’s sent to bed. He’s later haunted by the toe’s owner. Where is my big toe? Where is my toe? Carol always thought that was the scariest of all the stories. But even still, gazing at the piece of truncated pinkie like a crumb of meat left on the plate, it looked kind of… appetizing.

She set the cutting board down. Then, moving quickly as to not regret it, she peeled the finger off the cutting board and threw it into her mouth, nail and all. It caught in her throat for a moment, and for a second she was sure she’d choke on her stupidity, but then it gave.

Down the hatch and ‘round the corner, she thought. Then, out loud, with an air of awed tranquility:

“Tastes like chicken.”

She laughed at her crack, then tended to the mess. She washed the cutting board, not caring about chopping another carrot. Doug will just have to go another day without any carrots, that’s all. He’ll manage.

*

Doug wheeled his Prius into the garage at 4:30 p.m. By then, the linguine was sizzling on a saucepan, and its tangy scent permeated the house. Carol was ecstatic.

By now, he would have remembered their anniversary. He must’ve felt horrible (just horrible!) all day at work, upon remembering, with a start, that today was December 2nd. He would walk through the door and drop to his knees, exalting her with compliments and pleas of “I’m sorry,” and declaring his commitment to marriage. And love for her.

And this morning? It was just a fluke. His morning coffee hadn’t yet set in, and he was groggy and disoriented. He had forgotten their anniversary, but only for a minute.

The door opened with an anticipatory groan. Carol breathed deeply. The smells of her fresh cooking intermingled in a miasma of spice.

“Hey,” he said, with all the gusto of a cottonmouthed telemarketer. Doug walked into the kitchen. He hung his coat. Slipped off his shoes.

“I prepared a nice dinner for us,” she said.

He said nothing, just trudged into the living room, sat on the couch, and flicked on the evening news.

Not even a “smells good.”

A minute passed. Carol saw a chime on her phone. From Meg.

“Meg’s at Amy’s house,” she told Doug. “Says she’ll be back at nine.”

“Okay.”

“We should eat without her, just the two of us.”

“Okay.”

She set the table and placed the linguine on a dish, carefully so, like an offering on an altar. She did the same with the soup, and stirred it lovingly. She blew into the steam as if in prayer.

“What’s this?”

“Hot and sour soup.”

When she saw the disgruntled look on his face, she added:

“It’s Asian cuisine.”

“Chinese food,” he said dejectedly.

“Doesn’t it smell good?”

“Yeah,” he conceded.

They ate like mannequins, miming out their movements as if reading from a script. Pick up fork. Stab bowtie noodles. Swallow.

“Anything interesting happen at work today?”

“Same old, same old.”

Test spoon in soup. Raise it to your lips. Swallow.

“You haven’t touched your linguine,” she says, once he had finished the soup.

“Sorry. Do you want it? I’m not in the mood for this stuff again.”

This stuff again. This stuff again.

Those words played in her head, round and round, heating up slightly, like the plate in a microwave.

“No, I’ll just put it away.”

She took the plate and ducked behind the kitchen counter. Retrieved a large tupperware. She tilted the plate—a move so simple yet to her as melancholic as the R.M.S. Titanic sliding into the Atlantic. Most of the plate sludged into the plastic. But some noodles remained.

This stuff again.

She took an oversized cutting knife and scraped them off, trying to get as much of the clam sauce as possible. The knife shined silver, the sauce was white as semen.

“It was good,” Doug said, and Carol couldn’t help but smile. She deposited the tupperware in the fridge, and, positioning her back to Doug to cover his view of the kitchen, discreetly removed another item.

“I’m glad you like it. But there’s more.”

With that, she heaved the full weight of her body against the corkscrew wine opener and popped the bottle of Château Margaux.

Pooompf!

Bubbles instantly fizzed up; tiny iridescent balloons in celebration. Like whitewater on a beach. Carol smiled, so lost in thought that she barely understood the words coming out of Doug’s mouth. They must’ve echoed three times around the kitchen before they reached her eardrums.

“Are you crazy?!?”

“Huh?” she was still smiling, pouring the green bottle into the first of two wine glasses.

“That’s Château Margaux!”

“I know,” Carol says, hesitantly at first. Then, with a firmer voice:

“That’s why I’m pouring it.”

“That was from Joe Briggasson. We were supposed to save it for special occasions. You just opened it. You ruined it.”

Carol couldn’t stop herself. As she spoke, she strangled the neck of Doug’s wine glass.

“Special occasions?”

She laughed, a hollow cackle that scared her more than him.

“Ruined it? Did I, Doug? Did I really?”

Anger crept into her voice in the same sneaky way she found herself humming along to a tune in the supermarket she didn’t know was playing.

“Yes, you did!” Doug said. “You’re supposed to sit on that for a few decades.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Doug.” Carol said, with mock sympathy. It was a tone unfamiliar to both Doug and herself. “I guess twenty years of marriage wasn’t enough for you.”

“Twenty years? Twenty...” he trailed off, head turned toward the calendar behind her. Red sharpie accused him. Red like blood.

“I told you, honey.” he said, getting his voice under control. “This morning. I said Happy Anniversary. You must’ve forgot.”

“Liar!”

Shmakkkk!

Carol looked down. Her hand had thoroughly choked the neck of the wineglass. It lay shattered, its glass spread out on the linoleum floor like petals of some deadly flower. Puddled with blood and $500 wine. It was the third time she cut her hand today. That’s a hat trick.

“Oh, Carol,” he said sadly, condescendingly.

“Here, let me help.”

The chair pushed back. He went into the kitchen, wearing a face of both sympathy and disgust. It was the look he wore in Bangkok. Bangkok. The beautiful city with the grilled octopus that Doug was too afraid to try and looked at her funny when she did, as if he had walked in on her performing fellatio on another man. The disgust he wore never left her memory. It was such a minor grievance, so silly that they never talked about it. One of those inconsequential peccadilloes that married people are supposed to forgive, and, if God forbade, forget. But still, like a bad stain, it didn’t seem to fade. On the contrary, it grew. Festered in her mind. Fed there.

She realized, then, that she hated Doug.

She looked at the knife, snuggled in its block of triangular wood.

“Are you cut?”

She didn’t answer. She bit her hand. Most of the wine remained in the bottle, still bubbling up. Up and up and up. Fizzing. Like grease on a skillet.

“Okay, not too bad.”

He inspected her palm. Only a few scrapes. Some blood, but nothing too deep. There was a bandage on her pinkie finger covering the nail, but it looked like Carol had handled that already. So, he crouched down and picked up some of the glass from the floor. Collecting it into a sparkling pile.

She couldn’t look at him. She bit her hand. She looked at the wine. Fizzing.

Like a snake’s hiss.

“I can’t believe this.” he said, head bowed, his balding hair displayed like a half-assed attempt at a monk’s tonsure. “Five hundred down the drain.”

She looked at the block of wood, knife nestled cozily inside. The wine bottle stood beside it. Then, without thinking, her hand left her mouth. She wrung the bottle by the neck and thrashed it against his head. It exploded in a hail of glass and colored fluid.

He doubled over.

“Fuhhh—”

Glass everywhere.

Blood, too, black as elderberries.

Wine, fizzing. Hissing like a snake.

He turned around, and she could see that he fell on glass. Some pieces twinkled to the floor. They sparkled like the spilled champagne. He raised his mangled hands defensively. Fingers bled like the carrots sitting in the bottom of the trash can.

“Carol…”

She pounced on him, driving the full weight of her body into her hand, which clutched the corkscrew wine opener like an epipen. It slid into his throat.

Then, everything was red.

For one fleeting infinity: that awful, scarlet ubiquity.

She blinked, and he was there again. Eyes glazed and trembling like spoonfuls of jello. Beads of sweat on his brow, pustules of blood, drips of wine, all pregnantly static. Lips parted, as if to taste. He managed to croak out one word:

“Whhhhhyyyyyy?”

And she—still draped over him like they were a much younger couple, faces inches apart, ready to do the deed—answered:

“Octopus.”

She twisted the spiral.

He sputtered; twitched; convulsed like having a seizure. She felt every movement. His hands fell sleepily to his side, parting the broken glass.

His mouth was a science project: a volcano oozing magma. Drops cascaded down his chin the way chocolate sauce topped an ice cream sundae. They pooled in his fat neck, which was resting, bonelessly, on the linoleum.

Carol uncurled her fingers from the twisted metal spiral. She looked at them—cut up and covered in both their blood. Like a wounded animal, she licked her fingers.

Finger-licking good, she thought, and released a hollow laugh. Then, she put her mouth to the back of her hand, chewing. Ponderous, but not nervous.

“Oh, Doug. What did you make me do?”

The room smelled sickly sweet, the fragrances of wine and home cooking still identifiable. Its sallange permeated the entire house, clinging like flies to a corpse.

She surveyed the kitchen—all that blood and wine and broken glass, some volleyed across the room—and saw the oven. She looked back to Doug’s volcano face. And knew, just knew, what to do. She kissed him on the lips, wet and still warm. Then she leaned back, licked the blood from her lips, and said:

“You look delicious.”

*

Meg came home at 9:15 p.m. She sniffed the air. Something was off, but she couldn’t tell what, exactly. She shook her head. Meg had had her period this morning, and the smell of blood still lingered.

Her mother was in the kitchen, cooking, though that was usual for her. Even late at night, she always had something in the oven. With her mother, a bowl was always ready to lick, and a good meal perpetually at their fingertips. In recent months, she felt bad about turning down mom’s cooking, saying she wasn’t feeling the chicken parmigiana. In reality, she didn’t want to get fat. She didn’t want to have a nickname at school like Size-Forty Sandra.

But that would change. She would eat what her mother cooked. She didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings.

Besides, as far as chefs were concerned, her mother wasn’t half bad.

“Hi, Meg. How was Amy’s?”

“Alright.”

“Did you eat yet?”

“Yeah, a little. Some chicken with Amy and her parents. But I have room for more. What do you have?”

“Let’s just say… mystery meat.”

“Sure, as long as it’s not octopus again. I couldn’t stand that when we went to Bangkok.”

“Oh, no,” her mother said, flashing her pearly whites like a walking, talking dental ad. “Much better.”

She plopped a steaming chunk of meat on a plate and turned around, looking radiant. Meg could not remember the last time her mom looked this happy. She looked ten years younger! Even in the wan light of the kitchen, her wrinkles seemed smoothed, her eyes sparkled with brilliance. There was a renewed bounce to her step as she set the plate down in front of her, all the while grinning ear to ear. To Meg, this seemed almost a comical sight. Because for all this renewed vigor and ebullient veneer, her mother had not noticed what was caught between her two front teeth: dangling there, like a fly entombed in a spider’s web, was a slim sliver of meat.

“Dig in,” she said, and Meg did.

End.

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[lalegumiste]

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

The man may be gone but so glad the music is still with us! This is not about David Bowie, of course. It’s about change. And how well some of us may or may not accept it. Or how quickly or not we accept it. Or how intensely we begin to crave it after too many years of sameness or indecision.  And how in the end we all adapt, one way or another. I just realized this is my hundredth post here, so the topic seems very apropos. It’s been waaay too long a time coming, and in the blogosphere, I believe I have achieved glacial pace. Although I’m pretty sure even glaciers these days are moving (errr, melting) faster than I do when updating this poor blog. 

Change is the only sure thing, and for me, accepting that has always been problematic. I’m a little better about it these days, but it will probably continue to be a work in progress for as long as I’m around. Anyways, I had lots to say about it, and typed it all out here, but ultimately decided that part of the post would be better located after the jump. If you want to skip directly to the recipes(don’t blame you), they are after the jump as well, and clearly separated from this more meandering portion.

Moving on to some food related changes. I may have written about this before, but I can’t remember and do not want to go back through the posts and figure it out. I come from a place with lots of food traditions, most of them involving meat, which I no longer eat. One of the biggest feasts takes place at Easter, and other than the dyed eggs and dessert, pretty much every dish involves meat. As my ties to the proverbial old country are getting older (I mean that literally), I am becoming more intent in trying to preserve some of the old recipes, but changing them to vegetarian versions, so that I can, in the future, uphold at least some of the links to the place I came from.

And so this past Easter, I made two of the traditional dishes, and changed the recipes to be both meatless, in the case of one and to use available ingredients, in the case of the other.

The first dish is a savory one called drob. It’s hard to describe it exactly, the closest I can come is to say that it is somewhere between a quiche and a mince pie, with a lot of herbs. Traditionally, it uses no dough, relying instead on a large piece of lamb’s intestine to hold the whole thing together. The filling is made by finely chopping all of the lamb’s entrails and mixing them with a lot of chopped fresh parsley and dill. The top gets brushed with a beaten egg, and the whole thing is baked until the top begins to brown. I will say this for my people - they really subscribe to the waste not/ want not mentality. This is an example of that mentality applied to the Easter lamb - every bit of it gets eaten or used. Still, this didn’t help me any when I got a craving for this “pie,” since the only thing I’m interested in doing to a lamb anymore is petting it. The changed recipe contains absolutely no meat or entrails, relying instead only on mushrooms and eggs. And a very large amount of fresh herbs, because that’s where the flavor really comes from.

The second recipe is for a traditional Easter dessert called pasca, which is essentially a cheesecake, a well flavored but not terribly sweet one. The funny thing is, growing up I refused to touch it, preferring chocolate or sugar eggs for my festive sweets. Then when I went back to visit Romania as an adult, my godmother made something  like pasca and after I tried it, I had to wonder why I’d refused it so strongly all those years ago. The traditional pasca is made with a fresh cow’s milk that I can’t purchase in the US. The dough, which is similar to the dough of the walnut cake we traditionally eat at both Easter and Christmas, is apparently  very involved and temperamental, and so far I have been dissuaded from even attempting it. Even if, according to family lore, my paternal grandmother was a master at it. Of course, no one has her recipe. This very special dough is used both as a bottom and a top for the cheese filling of the pasca, but since I was not going to be using it, I decided to use only a bottom crust in my adaptation and opted for phyllo dough in order to keep it thin and end up with those crunchy brown edges. Obviously, I also changed the type of cheese. 

Whether you read this far or skipped straight to the bottom, the recipes for both my vegetarian drob and cheesecake-like pasca are after the jump. I hope you enjoy them.

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This is not about how I will change my ways, and be more diligent about posting here, and getting on a schedule, etc - because I already wrote about that, and obviously it did not work and now I feel a bit like an errant kid.

This is more about some changes I’ve encountered that may or may not be related to my lapse in posting. If nothing else, it might help me sort out some thoughts, and what else is a blog good for if not for brain dumping into the world?

First of all, I became very enthralled with Instagram. Obviously, my writing here is not of the highly edited and fact checked variety, but after getting used to how easy it is to just post a picture and add some hashtags, using an actual keyboard to write out thoughts, spending more than two minutes putting something together before posting, well, it started to feel more and more “involved.” Which I guess is not something I felt like being for a bit. So, one of the changes was that I started posting pictures on the gram box regularly, and stopped even attempting to write here.

Second, I think I hit some kind of writer’s block/ boredom/ disenchantment as far as writing about food was concerned. I just couldn’t think about anything food related that I wanted to write about. Yes, I know how pretentious and borderline stupid that sounds, but it’s the way I felt. I did not want to write about my take on the chia bowl, or my adventures with non wheat flour baking, although I engaged in both. I felt a little bit like no one around me was eating real food anymore, and while I continued to cook and eat (of course!), I didn’t have much to say about it. So I didn’t. And yes, I know this is in part to spending too much time on Instagram.

Third, I started to question the validity of my posting here. It used to be that this was just something I did for me, giving me an outlet for my thoughts and maybe a bit of practice at writing, because we all know practice makes perfect. Ha! But after a few months of instantaneous likes on my Instagram posts, I started to feel a little miffed at not getting the same response here. Good old tree falling in the forest dilemma. Not sure why I couldn’t get past it, since it didn’t bother me before, but, there you have it.

Of course, after the extensive, although believe me, not exhaustive, rant, I guess I could have kept it a lot shorter and to the point: I’ve been neglecting my blog because of Instagram! But it’s never been my way to be quick and to the point, so I see no point in editing down this rant.

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Vegetarian Easter Pie (Drob)

1 lb mixed mushrooms (such as shiitake, cremini, oyster, button), finely chopped

1 bunch fresh dill, finely chopped

1 bunch parsley finely chopped

3 scallions, finely chopped

1 onion, finely chopped

2 hard boiled eggs, diced small

2 eggs well beaten

1 t fresh ground pepper

2 t salt, more to taste as needed

2 T olive oil

1 T butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Chop all the mushrooms, including stems, and place together in a large bowl.

Chop the parsley and dill and place together in a bowl.

Heat the olive oil and butter in a large saute pan over medium heat. Add the chopped onion and scallions and cook until softened, about 2-3 minutes.

Add the mushrooms and salt, stir to combine, and cook until the mushrooms have released all their moisture and any liquid has evaporated, about 5 minutes.

Add the dill, parsley and chopped hard boiled egg and stir to combine.

Remove from heat.

Beat the two eggs and add to the mixture, stirring to incorporate. Add salt and pepper and stir to combine, adding more salt if desired.

Coat the bottom and sides of a 9 inch pie dish with butter.

Pour the mushroom mixture into the pie dish and bake for 35 minutes or until the top begins to brown and the edges of the pie begin to come away from the pie dish.

Let cool to room temperature. Slice and serve with a green leafy salad - my favorite is torn butter lettuce leaves, red onion, and a simple red wine vinaigrette.

Cheesecake-like Pasca

1 32 oz container ricotta

1 oz cream cheese

1.5 T sour cream (optional)

4 eggs

1 cup raisins

4 t sugar

3.5 t vanilla sugar

zest from one lemon

rum (optional) or water

5 sheets phyllo dough

2 T butter, melted

*Note: This is less sweet than a typical cheesecake, although the raisins provide added pops of sweetness. You may want to taste the mixture after adding them to decide if you want to add more sugar than the recipe calls for.

Bring the rum to a low simmer over medium low heat. Remove from heat and pour over raisins in a small bowl, enough to cover the raisins with liquid. Cover with a small plate and set aside to steep, at least an hour. Drain the raisins very well in a fine mesh strainer. Follow the same steps with water if using instead of rum.

Preheat oven to 380 degrees F.

In a large bowl, using a hand mixer on low speed, mix together the cheeses, sour cream (if using), sugars and lemon zest.

Beat the eggs in, one at a time, until well incorporated.

Stir in the well drained raisins. Set mixture aside.

Brush the bottom and sides of a low 10 inch pie dish with melted butter. Layer a sheet of phyllo dough in the dish, centering it as well as possible, and press lightly so the dough adheres to the dish. Brush with melted butter, turn the dish slightly clockwise, and repeat with the next sheet of phyllo, brushing with butter again. Repeat until all phyllo sheets are in the dish and brushed with butter. Trim any excessive overhang around the pie dish, but leave some in order to be able to fold it around the filling.

Gently pour the cheese mixture into the prepared pie dish. Going around the pie dish, fold any phyllo overhang, almost as if braiding it over the edge of the filling, to create a bit of a decorative element. Brush the top of this braid with some melted butter.

Bake for 40 to 55 minutes, until the edges of the dough are browned, and the filling has become solid and slightly puffed.

Remove from oven, allow to cool to room temperature, slice and serve. It may take a while for the pie to cool to room temperature.