#if the quality gets eaten I will eat a banana and cry outside on my porch

[mogspawner]

Original by @genrihgayne

"There’s the door, we’ve got millions of applicants~"

[pacific-rimbaud]

I want Dramione babies !!!

!!!

Here you go.

*****

Formal Sitting Room

by Pacific Rimbaud

Rated M

1300 words, complete short fic

Tags: Dad!Draco, Mum!Hermione, A Baby, Sofa Sitting, Stupidly in Love 

“You’ll note that I’ve brought you here to the sitting room, and that’s because we have several important things to discuss without the usual distractions.”

Draco adjusted his posture on the sofa.

The long term goal, he had decided, was to look engaged—attentive, he thought—but at the same time relaxed and approachable. One might have a conversation sitting like this, rather than issue commands, a distinction which he had come to value greatly.

His interlocutor leaned forward from the hips, as though he meant to leave.

“Make no attempt to escape. You’ll recall that I’ve set up wards of all kinds throughout the room. You may test them as much as you like, but you’ll get no further than the threshold if you try to run off.”

Draco adjusted his reading glasses, gathering his thoughts.

He paused.

“Are you looking at these?” He removed his glasses and held them up, where they caught the lamp light. “These are mine. They’re not under any circumstances to be removed from my person. They’re quite fragile.” He tucked the arms back over his ears, and began his speech.

“I know that while your goals and mine may not always align, I recognize that your … ” Draco squinted, recalling the appropriate language “ … feelings are valid. It’s perfectly alright to cry, especially in situations like the one we had in the kitchen just now. For my part, I” —he felt his face contort under the effort, which his conversation partner seemed to find amusing enough to smile about— “was wrong in eating the entire banana. I ought to have asked if you wanted any.”

That part over, Draco moved on.

A sandwich, he’d been told.

Positive feedback to start, then constructive criticism, followed by further positive feedback.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been working hard on your articulation and vocabulary recently, and I admire your tenacity and perseverance. Your choice to monologue at three o’clock in the morning was disruptive to other members of the household. Your tone and projection are impressive.”

His companion settled back against the cushion behind him and yawned.

Draco moved on. His posture had stiffened, and he took a moment to allow his muscles to relax. 

“You’ll recall our earlier discussions about personal hygiene. I understand that progress in that area is dependent on multiple factors outside of your control, and that you’re doing your best under the circumstances.” He drew in a deep breath. “Know that I love you very much, and always will, no matter what you’ve done.”

He swallowed. The words felt less like foreign objects in his mouth every time he said them, which was the purpose of this exercise.

“I’m very proud of you, son.”

“What are you two up to in here?” Hermione’s voice was laced with fatigue.

She entered the room with her arms wrapped around her waist and her eyes still blinking, fogged with sleep, and slid sideways into Draco’s lap. “Hello.”

“Good afternoon. I take it you fell asleep with your book. How was the nap?” He ran the heel of his hand firmly up her spine, then down again.

“Gorgeous. Thank you so much.”

“Of course.”

She considered Draco’s associate at the other end of the sofa. “I’m trying very hard right now to not be terrified of him falling off the edge.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ve put a sticking charm on his bum, he’s not going anywhere.” He tilted his chin at the baby. “Your mother thinks I’d let you toss yourself off the sofa, Fornax.”

“Stop calling him Fornax, he’s going to think it’s actually his name.” Hermione yawned. “He looks ready for his sleep. What did you two get up to?”

Draco wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist, and without dislodging her from his lap, leaned forward and grasped the baby around the back with a grip steady and confident from constant repetition.

“What did we do, Dennis?”

“Your name is not Dennis, you poor mouse.” Hermione drew the baby into her arms, where it flattened its cheek against her chest and breathed a world-weary sigh. Hermione sniffed its head. “He smells of fruit.”

“We had peaches, and some avocado, and he said no to the banana, but then changed his mind once I’d eaten the whole thing and got angry with me, because he’s your son.”

“And yours.”

“That’s probably fair. Then we did some scooting, and bashing one’s own father about the head and face with a wooden mallet. After that, we rocked for a bit, and read Red Dragon, Yellow Dragon, Blue Dragon half a dozen times, and then we ate its pages for a while.”

“Did it taste nice?”

“It always does.”

“Mmm.” Hermione ran her palm over the baby’s white-blond curls, then kissed the crown of its head. “And then you came into the formal sitting room to practice—what, entertaining etiquette?”

“Something like that.” Draco stroked a hand through Hermione’s hair, and then began the meticulous and satisfying work of untangling his fingers from it.

“Are you ready for your second sleep, my love?” she whispered into the baby’s scalp.

“He’s had his milk and a fresh nappy just now. I’ll go lie him down.” Draco wrapped his hands around the baby’s ribs, and shifted him onto his own chest. “How far did you get in your book before you fell asleep?”

“Two pages.”

“Maybe now that you’ve napped, you’ll make some headway.”

Draco laid a hand on Hermione’s hip and pushed at her lightly to shift her off his lap.

“Or … “ she whispered.

He stopped.

His eyes rolled back in his head.

“I’ll never stop loving what this does to you.” She dropped her temple to his shoulder, still circling her thumb in a ghostly touch over the exquisitely sensitive skin of his earlobe.

Draco pulled her hand away with a soft grip on her wrist, and looked at her sidelong.

“You could read your book, or? Go on.”

“Or … ”

As she grasped his right hand and pulled it toward her, he held the baby more firmly with his left.

She guided his hand under the bottom hem of her jumper, then higher, until he took over and made the revolutionary discovery that she wasn’t wearing anything at all underneath.

“Or,” she said, “we could do something about the way you look in your reading glasses.”

He clutched at her, one all-encompassing press of his palm and fingers around the perfect curve of her breast, then drew back, dragging his fingertips along her skin, and then—”

She gasped with the pinch.

Draco nodded. “That’s settled, then. I’m going to keep these reading glasses on, no matter what they might be doing to my eyes, go and put Griffin in his cot—”

“Griffin was a serious suggestion, which you were incredibly rude about.” Hermione’s voice had taken on a frayed, breathless quality. “It’s horrible of you to bring it up.” She arched her chest against his hand. “If we’d gone with your system he could have been Bootes. Reticulum. Triang—oh, gods, that feels good.”

“Does it? I’m glad to hear it.” He removed his hand from her jumper, and slid it down along the warm skin of her belly. “I’m going to go and put our very beautiful son, with his very beautiful, very Muggle name, in his cot—”

“Are you?” Hermione’s eyes expressed something quite apart from sleepiness.

“And then I’m going to come back here—”

He slid his hand beneath the waistband of the cotton pajama bottoms she lounged about the house in, and which inexplicably turned him on, but stopped a wicked inch above where she might have liked his journey to end.

“And then what?” she asked.

He thrilled at her obvious impatience, advertised in the pitch of her voice, the color blooming over her cheeks, and the tension of her efforts to not roll her hips up into his hand.

The baby made his customary sigh at the advent of sleep.

Draco cupped the baby’s head in his palm, holding him tight to his shoulder, and leaned in close to Hermione’s ear.

“And then, I’m going to teach you some entertaining etiquette.”

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus,

I turned 38 years old today. I’ll post the detailed account I posted to Facebook of how I spent the day below, but I left out the part about how after talking to Nene, I kept standing out on the patio at Yiayia’s house. I watched you and Mom through the window. You sat in her lap, laughing at whatever she was doing. I’m so happy you and me and Mom all have each other. And that we have everyone else. I’m so happy you are happy.

Dad

North Little Rock, Arkansas. 1.8.2020 - 6.23pm.

PLAY BY PLAY:

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. The room is still dark. I can just make out enough of the bedsheets to notice that Liz is already gone. She had to be at the hospital by 6:30am for work. I lift my phone off the bedside table. It’s nearly 7am. Gus calls for his mother from his crib, but he doesn’t complain when I open his door, turn off his space heater and his sound machine.

“I want Mama,” he says. His pacifier muffles his words.

“Mama’s at work,” I say, opening the wooden blinds.

“No, she’s not,” he says.

“Where is she?”

“She’s in there,” he says, pointing down the dimly lit hallway.

“Okay,” I say, picking him up. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“I need a fig bar and a banana and a vitamin,” he says. He says it every morning.

He tosses his pacifier into the kitchen sink while I peel him a whole banana, careful not to break it, and put it into the Ziploc bowl with a leftover fig bar. His teeth marks are left from a bite he took yesterday. I add the gummy purple vitamin and hand him the bowl. We walk into the living room and I use the remote to turn the television on.

“I want to watch Dino the Dinosaur,” he says. The show features Dino and his friend Dina, dinosaurs of the triceratops variety, who learn about colors or numbers or shapes in every super-short episode. Neither character talks, but a woman with a soothing voice narrates everything. He loves it. Liz and I can’t stand to watch the show, but it’s better than when he got hooked on Trolls, which has no educational value. Or any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

As I leave the room, Gus erupts into a scream. I know immediately that he has noticed I’ve given him yesterday’s fig bar. He cries and says something unintelligible about it.

“Do you want a new fig bar?”

He says something else unintelligible about it.

“Do you want a blueberry or a raspberry fig bar?” I ask.

He stops crying and says he wants raspberry.

I put the new fig bar in his bowl and take out the fig bar with the missing bite. I start to throw it in my mouth, but remember I haven’t weighed yet. I record my weight every day into a Google spreadsheet I share with my cousin John. We have compared weights for years, but got serious about it in 2018 when we began recording our weights every day in the document, the title of which is “Fat Boys.”

When my grandfather was alive, he must’ve thought his grandsons were all a bunch of lanky, weak kids because he offered $100 to the first of us who could get to 180 pounds. He wanted a grandson that could help him contend with livestock. Zachary earned the money, but now that our grandfather’s gone, we’re all on the other side of 180, trying to get back.

I step onto the scale. It reads 187.8. Down a pound from yesterday. A win. I pop the half-eaten fig bar in my mouth and walk to the back bathroom to take a shower.

I see Gus’s blurry shape through the frosted glass of the shower. I stand on my tiptoes to look at him from over the door.

“I need my milk,” he tells me. We call it milk, but it’s really rice milk. He’s allergic to dairy, so we’ve cycled through all the milk alternatives for the last couple of years. His doctors thought he might also be allergic to soy, so we gave up on soy milk, then we discovered he probably had a tree nut allergy, so we quit almond milk. He wouldn’t drink oat milk, so here we are. For now. Our gastroenterology specialist has asked us to bring in another stool sample for testing. He scolded Liz this week for rescheduling Gus’s scope recently, even though his staff told us to reschedule because of a cold. It was an unnecessary risk, they said. The abnormal results from the lab tests weren’t that big of a deal, the doctor himself said. But when Liz sat in front of him this week, he felt differently. He felt we weren’t taking Gus’s health seriously. He threatened to not reschedule if we were just going to cancel. When she recounted the conversation with me over the phone, I could feel my blood boil. There was a time when I believed in the authority of doctors and could stand to be talked down to within reason, but that time is no longer. Now I need them to recognize the importance of customer service. My instinct was to drive to Children’s Hospital and kick his office door down, but instead I told Liz to write down everything that he told her and the tone in which he said it because as soon as we no longer need him to tell us what is wrong with our boy’s digestive system, I will make sure everyone within earshot understands what an arrogant prick he is. (Stay tuned.)

“Did you poop?” I ask Gus.

“No, I didn’t poop,” he says.

“I think you pooped,” I say, hoisting him onto the changing table. I am late and don’t really have time to take the stool sample now, but I want to get it as quickly as possibly so we can get back the lab results.

I strip his pajamas off him and check his diaper. He wasn’t lying. There is no poop.

“Where are we going today?” Gus asks me.

“I’m going to work and you’re going to school.”

“Oh no, school’s closed today, Daddy.”

I glare at him, but he’s committed to the lie—he doesn’t smirk.

At work, my coworkers have hung a couple of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners in my office, which I share with Derek, though he isn’t in yet. They hand me the birthday sombrero to wear and we stand around the small conference room singing happy birthday. My brother-in-law has sent two breakfast casseroles and a large mixing bowl full of fresh fruit. We eat and catch up. We are a closely knit team, but it feels like we haven’t talked as a group since before Christmas, with everyone coming and going. A child has started at daycare. A spouse has gotten a dog. I express my growing anger toward the doctor. A 9:30 meeting breaks up our reunion and we all go back to work.

Derek and I debate where to go to lunch. I pull out my Excel sheet and begin reading off the names of local restaurants. We discuss a future study in which we spend each week only eating one dish, comparing one restaurant to another. We will find the city’s best ramen, the best pizza, the best cobb salad. But for now, we just need lunch. It’s already after noon. We go to Senor Tequila because it’s closer than anywhere else. We each get the special of the day: Bean burrito, cheese enchilada, Mexican rice for $6. We’re both amazed at how cheap that is. Derek quickly does some math on how much money he would save for the rest of his life if he only ate a $6 lunch. The figure is relatively astronomical. But then he surprises me by buying me lunch for my birthday, which would throw his number off, probably.

This morning, Liz tasked me with deciding what I’d like to do for my birthday dinner. She is unsatisfied when I tell her I don’t know. She tells me we can go somewhere, or she can make me something, or her mother has offered to order take-out at her house. I tell Liz I will decide later and text her before she gets off work at 3pm.

As that hour approaches, I am overwhelmed with the mountain of work I am facing at the office. I need the mental boost that comes with being able to scratch anything off my to-do list. Something easy, something quick. I text Liz that I want to go to her mother’s house and eat what we refer to as Korean tacos—chopped salmon and rice wrapped in seaweed. Accomplishing that simple task and being decisive gives me confidence to also ask her to make me a cherry pie, though I tell her it doesn’t have to be today. Just soon.

When she gets off work, she calls to say she’ll make the pie tonight if I’ll go get Gus from daycare.

In my truck I’m listening to Dani Shapiro read her memoir, HOURGLASS. I’ve mostly read fiction lately and Shapiro has reminded me how much I love memoir done right. So right that I feel like I’ve known her, personally, for a long time. Like we have a history that would warrant me picking up my phone and texting her to say, “I’m finally getting around to reading your book, old friend, and it is beautiful.” I wonder if my mother would like the book. I think she would.

I race across town to get to Gus’s daycare in Hillcrest before 5:30pm, but when I get there, I have time to spare. There are only five minutes left in my book, so I turn my truck’s engine off and watch the other parents wrangle their children into their respective cars while I listen to the very end—“This audiobook has been a production…”

I meet eyes with a mother I don’t recognize coming out of the school, and I realize just how creepy I may look, sitting there outside a daycare in my nondescript pick-up truck, no sense of urgency to get out and retrieve my child.

“Daddy!” Gus says, running into my arms when I finally go in and stand in the doorway where he and his friend Luna are the last two children.

“Does someone at your house have a birthday today?” Ms. Cathy asks Gus. “It’s Daddy’s birthday!” Gus says. And I feel incredibly loved by my son. He doesn’t have to love me, I think, but he does.

On the way home, I explain to Gus how the red lights and the green lights dictate when we stop and when we go. He is fascinated. He applies the rule to all the lights he sees.

“What is that yellow light?” he asks.

“That’s a controversial subject, son.” I say. “Some people think it means slow down, but I’m in the camp that just thinks it means it’s time to commit.”

“Oooohhhh…” he says. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I want to go see diggers,” he says. We are in a construction equipment phase.

“We’ll have to keep an eye out for some on the way to Yiayia & Papou’s.”

“Are we going to Yiayia & Papou’s?”

“Yiayia & Papou, we’re coming for you…” I say. It’s a game we’ve played for probably a year. I say the names of the people whose house we are going to and he will say what it is he wants from them.

“We’re coming for you and your toys and your Paw Patrol,” he responds.

When we get there, he runs into the living room for the toys and the Paw Patrol, which are also toys.

“Happy birthday,” Zill says.

Athena hugs me. Liz kisses me. I can tell she is eager for me to see that she is making my cherry pie.

“I didn’t have time to make Nana’s crust, but look at those cherries,” she says.

They are the red of earthy roses, a color not found from a can of cherry pie filling.

Athena pulls two beers from the refrigerator. “They’re both Birthday Bomb! beers, but one is aged in a whiskey barrel!” she tells me.

Liz and I are on a diet that only allows us to drink once a week and this week has already been spoken for.

“It’s a special occasion,” she says. “You should drink them.”

Athena pulls a frozen mug from the freezer and I pour the stout into the glass. I sit with Zill in the living room. We toast that our country has somehow managed to not initiate World War III yet. Athena brings in a plate of large, chilled shrimp, which grabs Gus’s attention.

“What are those things?” he asks.

“Those are shrimp,” I say. “You love shrimp.”

“I need to have them,” he says.

I hold one by the tail as he eagerly bites into it. He wants to take another bite before he finishes the first. He’s ready to move on to the next shrimp entirely, but I regain his attention and show him the meat that is still in the tail. He devours one shrimp after the other. So much so that I look around to see if anyone else thinks I should stop him. Liz is happy he’s eating protein and not carbs, so I let him continue.

My mother calls me and I step out onto the back patio. She wishes me a happy birthday and we talk about my day. We talk about the extended family getting together Sunday maybe to celebrate everyone who has a birthday in January—me, my sister, my grandmother, my aunt and uncle and oldest niece, Caroline, who came within hours of being a February birthday that night in 2008 when we all waited so long in the waiting room at the hospital in Memphis.

“Stop by so we can give you your birthday gift,” my sister texts me. They live less than a mile from us.

By the time Liz gets Gus bathed and I insist on waiting around to see the Final Jeopardy question, which I initially answered partially correct, but then second-guess myself enough to ultimately miss entirely, our family is tired. I drive Liz and Gus home so she can put him to bed, then I double back.

I look through the window and see Laura and Chris sitting in their living room, which is halfway through a remodel and in a state of disarray. I walk in without knocking. The lights are mostly out, but there is a lamp over the new keyboard my mother got her granddaughters for Christmas this year.

“Where’s Liz?” they ask. They prefer their aunt to their uncle.

“She had to go put Gus down,” I say, noticing the paper taped to two chairs facing the keyboard. On each paper is our names—“Guy” and “Liz”—our assigned seats.

Caroline casually walks out of the hallway onto the makeshift staging area in front of me. She holds a cardboard beard to her face and delivers lines she has written and rehearsed, but that don’t quite steer a clear narrative. Her younger sister emerges from the hallway with a similar prop and a less confident set of lines. They ramp up the drama by throwing their cardboard disguises away quickly and each donning a man’s necktie with the tags still on. They go back into the hallway and return with a gift bag for me. Inside, I find a vintage tie rack on which I will be able to hang the ties they have gotten me.

When things settle down, Cate sits at the keyboard. “I tried to learn ‘Happy Birthday,’ but I couldn’t,” she says to me, before playing the first notes of another simple tune from the songbook in front of her. We all clap when she finishes. I hug both my nieces and their parents.

“Did you ever take piano lessons, Gunkel?” Cate asks me.

“I did, but not for very long,” I say. “I could never coordinate my left hand while I was also using my right.”

Like I always do when I am in front of piano keys, I play the recognizable right hand to the melody of Beethoven’s Fur Elise.

“Can you teach me how to read those notes?” I ask Cate, nodding toward her songbook.

She shows me which notes correspond and together we try to play something. I enjoy the time with her, and I enjoy reading the music, even if it’s in such a simplistic form.

Again, I thank them for my gifts, then say goodbye. As I back out of their driveway, I notice a text from the woman who was married to my father when he died. They were married for nearly two decades. She has already wished me a happy birthday and so before I open it, I think hard about what information she might have to give me, but come up with nothing.

“Abbey passed tonight,” her text reads.

My father’s dog. A Jack Russell terrier he got when I lived with them. She was nuts, but also cute and loyal and absolutely fearless. Every time Dad introduced her to someone, he would say, “She’d fight a bear,” and he would tell of the time she came wandering home after fighting a wild animal, her insides dragging behind her.

Now, when I think of Abbey, I think of my father in his hospital bed at home in White County, depressed and ready to die, and in the corner, guarding the window, there is Abbey, standing guard for him, happy to wait as long as she needs to. I will always love her for the happiness she gave him.

When I get home, the lights are out. Liz and Gus are asleep. Suki and I walk to the backyard and I throw the tennis ball for her over and over until she no longer brings it back. I wash my hands and see our family cookbook on the counter. It lies open to the page listing my Nana’s pie crust recipe. I imagine Liz pulling the cookbook out this afternoon. And I feel incredibly loved by my wife. She doesn’t have to love me, but she does.

This is my wonderful life at 38 years old: cherry pies, tie racks, and memories of my father and his dog.

[lfutevicis1981-blog]

At the distance of a mile or two from the village we came to a pretty, low house, with a lawn and shrubbery at the front and a drive up to the door. Willie rang the bell, and asked if Miss Blomefield or Miss Ellen was at home. Yes, they were. Apocrine glands work a little differently. There are about 2,000 of these glands, primarily found in our hair follicles. When we're stressed (physically or emotionally) they produce a sweat rich with proteins and fatty acids, including a carbohydrate called sialomucin. Of the many things Happy Gilmore got right, one of them is how strange it seems that fans of any sport should be polite enough to abide those signs.This day in dumb sportsOn this day way back in 2017, we finally got Amy Earnhardt take on her husband Dale beloved banana and mayonnaise sandwich. She clearly thinks they gross, implying she is a reasonable person. I keep an open mind about odd sandwiches, but I have twice eaten banana and mayonnaise sandwiches on video for 의정부출장마사지 work when they become newsworthy in sports. BR is I guess actually a pretty normal guy by all known reports. He graduated from Purdue not too long ago. His father works to keep him out of all press (helped by the muscle of Lin Wood suing the shit out of anyone who says anything about BR). What your opinion on brands who lost their CF status due to selling to China? I not offended or trying to attach you I just genuinely curious because it can be a huge conundrum for a lot of people. On one hand now they not CF but on the other hand now Chinese civilians have access to safe, quality cosmetics that might actually come in their skintone. I know people on both sides of the fence about this. I first started getting the skincare stuff when I got a job at 17 and had a bit more money to spend. I still buy some of the skincare and I love the makeup balm. Their liquid makeup remover is magic. Clearly you are literally retarded and incapable of analyzing storylines, so I see no reason to explain why it is bad."Take Andromeda. Back when it came out, I recall seeing a review where the YouTuber in question was pretty obviously being manipulative to make up reasons it bad. He spliced various scenes together and recorded himself screaming "WHAT?! HUH!? WHO!?!? WASSDAT?!?! WHO??! WHAT?!?! WHERE?!?! WHY??!? See! That the problem with this game! It moves too quickly.". Caudelie Beauty Elixir I adore this product. I like the act of spraying it on my face. I normally apply it after all my cream products and before powder. A variety of deceptive means were used to whisk Aboriginal babies and children from their families. Some children were simply removed from their homes by government officials. Too young to remember their family histories, the children were told that they were orphans. The major cause of wrinkles is sun exposure (about 70 percent), and genetics can play a role as well. So we focus on moisturizers instead of sun protection. I think there are some good moisturizers, but it's a myth to think that they can get rid of wrinkles. Toddler is hungry but won eat anything and is cry/whining. Keeps trying to launch self out of high chair. I take her out and she says "Dide" (outside). Then after in the locker room one of the other guys looks and me and goes "Phew this was tough huh" and i was just thinking to myself. Jesus christ i haven even gotten out of breath or broken a sweat. The super lazy 5 10 minute warmup at BJJ Class involves more exercise than 1.5 hours of Aikido.. Doctorow's novel Ragtime, and a movie called The Girl in the Velvet Swing (named for the swing in which he pushed Evelyn Nesbitt, the showgirl whose husband eventually killed him). White is even credited with the origin of the joke about inviting a young woman up to see your etchings, because of the etchings of nudes he kept in one of his Manhattan hideaways. Over the years, Ire compulsively seduced (and very likely raped) a series of young women, some of them barely out of puberty, who were financially and emotionally dependent on him.Even while the rest of the world was caught up in White's depraved story, his descendants remained 의정부출장마사지 willfully oblivious to the scandal that swirled around them.

[intergalacticsuperstar]

Extraterrestrial | Alien!Tom Holland AU | Part 5

This ending is a bit of cliffhanger, but I am so excited! I want to hear theories when you’re finished!! Come talk to me in my ask box!

PS: if you could reblog this that would be so much help :))

Series Summary:

You had been waiting for something exhilarating in your life to happen for as long as you could remember. It was easy to get bored when you live in a small town, live alone, and work in a grocery store. You dreamed of living an exciting life, and your wishes were about to come true. One day, a naked glowing boy shows up in your backyard speaking about things that are simply out of this world.

Words: 1685

Warnings: None

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Part 5

Feeding an alien was much more difficult than one might think. You had already gone through all of the food in your fridge. First, you tried making a turkey sandwich, which he took one bite of before rudely spitting it out and explaining how it was “the most awful food he has ever consumed.”

The first time wasn’t bad. But when he simply refused to try another bite of a hot pocket you had so generously heated up for him after giving him cheese, ham, Taquitos, and leftover ravioli from Olive Garden, you were becoming increasingly frustrated.

“Tom, you didn’t even take a bite of it.”

“I did! And it smells awful!” He argued.

He was like a picky child. Stubborn and refusing until he got his way like some sort of royalty.

For some reason, you hadn’t expected the alien to even want to try any fresh produce. You kept thinking of sci-fi movies where the aliens ate food heated up from a tinfoil bag. You also weren’t entirely used to having food in your fridge, but suddenly remembered that you went to the store yesterday.

“Here, why don’t you try some fruit?” You pulled out various fruits and placed them in front of him. He stared at them like you were crazy. You explained what each one of them is, showing him which ones were apples, strawberries, mangos, bananas, and blueberries.

“These look scary.” He said innocently.

You sighed, frustrated. “Please just try them.”

The alien seemed to start to feel bad for causing so much trouble. You were obviously growing annoyed and slightly concerned that the alien wouldn’t find anything he liked to eat. You showed him how to peel a banana and then tore off a piece to give to him. He grabbed it reluctantly and took a bite. His face lit up.

“I don’t entirely hate this!”

You took a step back and fist-bumped the air with both of your hands in accomplishment. Finally. You explained how to eat the other fruits and for the most part, he seemed to think they were okay. Afterwards, you had him try vegetables, which he also found not entirely horrible.

“So, we will stick to the fresh stuff.” You smiled and he nodded while taking a bite of a strawberry.

After heating up a hot pocket for yourself, you settled Tom down in his room and went to yours and thought about what a crazy day it had truly been. What were you meant to do from here? For now, you decided, you would leave that question for the morning.

-------------------------

The alien woke up before you did.

You heard stirring in the kitchen and because you were not used to the fact of someone else living in your house, and you didn’t expect Tom to be up, you stealthily slipped into the hallway grabbing a sturdy hanger on your way. Perhaps, you thought, the government was finally here to take away your alien.

Rounding the corner quietly with the hanger held out defensively in front of you, you jumped into the kitchen ready to attack. But, all you found was a boy in pajamas with a halfway eaten mango staring at you startled.

“Oh, Tom, sorry.” You awkwardly through the hanger on to the couch just outside the kitchen and looked away awkwardly. You felt bad for scaring him.

“It’s okay. What were you doing?” He asked tentatively.

You put on a shy smile, embarrassed about what just happened and said, “I didn’t know you were awake. I thought there might be someone in the house.”

He nodded at you curiously and stood up to the see what you had been holding when you first jumped into the kitchen. “And you were going to attack with what you explained to me as an object that holds clothes?”

You nodded defeatedly and mumbled, “It was the first thing I saw.”

Tom wasn’t too hard on you, but he did laugh at the unexpected situation. Of course, you couldn’t help but join in, because of how ridiculous you had been. Eventually, you would have to get a little more used to this.

When you both calmed down you started discussing the day’s events.

“So, I was thinking I could show you around town today. You know, like really see Earth. We can go shopping and go to a park or something. If you want.”

He nodded and looked down like he was thinking.

“That sounds lovely and all, but I must find my ship. I need to return home.”

Your heart dropped. Of course, he needed to find his spaceship. You should let him do that. He’ll go find his ship, take off and head back to his world and never return because you are a human from a stage 4 planet.

Ouch.

“Wait, aren’t you like, I don’t know, a fugitive? Doesn’t it look like you ran away and deserted your people?” You hadn’t meant for it to come out that harsh, but it was the truth.

His face fell. “Oh, yeah. I guess I am.”

You thought for a moment. What to do, what to do?

“What if…” You began and he looked at you expectantly. “What if you took me to Maxmirius.”

The alien stared at you like you had seven heads. Before he could get a word out you explained, “What if I help you find your ship. And in return, you can take me to Maxmirius, and I’ll vouch for you. If you explain what happened, surely someone will believe you.”

Tom was deep in thought. He continued to stare at you like you with his ‘this girl is crazy' eyes.

“No offense, Earthling, but why do you need to come with me?”

He was right. There was no real reason you needed to go to Maxmirius. You just couldn’t bear the idea that an adventure had its doors wide open for you, and if Tom leaves without you, those doors get slammed shut for good.

You let out a giant sigh. “Okay, fine. There isn’t a real reason, other than I could help convince people that you are innocent and telling the truth. But, please, Thomanikon, I have lived for years on this planet. Nothing exciting is out there for me. I am trapped doing a job I hate, meeting low-quality people, and living off of my parent’s dime for the rest of my life. If you leave now… Well, now that I know that there’s more out there, how am I meant to be satisfied with this world?”

You were desperate. Everything about you at this moment was desperate. Your eyes bore into his with desperation, your body language was frantic, and your very words slipped out of your mouth from the desperate and scared feeling of him leaving you alone on this planet.

His eyes were sympathetic, and somehow you could see that deep down he related to your words. He wasn’t sympathetic, he was empathetic.

“I have known you for a little over a day, Earthling, and I am already sure of the fact that you are a fantastic person. Surely, you can find happiness here.” His eyes were kind, but pained as though he knew he was crushing your dreams.

Your heart dropped and you felt like crying. You were embarrassed, but you also didn’t care. For some reason, it grew inside you and you knew that you had to get off this planet.

“No, no, no. I’ve never fit in here. I was a loner in school. My parents moved just to get away from me. I don’t have a real career. There’s something stirring inside me, Tom, and I have to go with you.”

He stared at you for a long time while your heart thumped in your chest, waiting to hear his verdict.

“Okay, Earthling, if you help me find my ship and help convince my people of my innocence, I will take you to Maxmirius.”

Your eyes widen and a grin sets upon your lips. You wanted to jump and shout and celebrate, but all you could do was reach forward and hug the alien. He was more confused by what you were doing.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you!” You said into his shirt.

He laughed at your sudden outburst and looked down at you holding onto his torso. “What are you doing?”

You stepped back and stared at him in shock. “You don’t hug on your planet?”

He cocked his head. “We have something similar, but it’s never quite so random.”

“Oh well, you just wrap your arms around me.” You said while reaching around him once more, reconnecting the hug. He did as you told him to and sat there for a few moments before you pulled away.

He smiled at you. “That was nice.”

You nodded in response. The happy atmosphere was refreshing. You hadn’t felt this wonderful in years. Finally, you were getting the hell off this planet.

Suddenly, Tom grew upset. In fact, he looked almost guilty.

“Tom?” You asked. “What’s the matter?”

He stepped away and put his hands on the counter, looking anywhere but your eyes. This only caused you to grow worried. Was he changing his mind?

“Earthling, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” He said, finally bringing his eyes up to yours.

You gulped as your heart rate rose back up to its nervous pace. What hadn’t he been honest with you about?

Oh no. What if he wasn’t actually an alien?!

“What...what do you mean?” You stammered out.

He noticed your increasing worry and immediately felt bad for this entire situation. His faced was grimaced and he looked like had done something really, truly wrong. Your heart almost couldn't take it. Had this been a joke this entire time?

“I should’ve been honest from the beginning, I know. It wasn’t right for me to do this to you, and I understand if you’re mad-”

“Tom, spit it out.” You cut him off.

“I think it is about time that I tell you who I really am.”

Dun, dun, dun, dunnnnnnn. Let’s hear those theories!

Taglist: @casualprincess77, @thollcnds

[laurallama52-blog]

Gradz - puts the Artizan in Artizan Bread

One of the things I really love as a food writer is the opportunity I have to try new things.  Its a perk that I never get tired of.  I was recently contacted and asked if I would like to try out some bread from GRADZ Bakery, finely crafted artisanal breads, crafted in London by Master Bakers. 

Master bakers Agnes Gabriel and Romuald Damaz have always been passionate about making healthy, delicious bread. When they discovered a treasure of family recipes hand-written by Agnes’s Great Grandfather, they were inspired to establish the GRADZ (Gabriel Romuald Agnes DamaZ) bakery and share their tradition of continental-style baking with Britain. By adding their knowledge, skill and expertise, the GRADZ master bakers have developed traditional bread with today’s tastes and health benefits. Their wish is for you to enjoy their family heritage of continental-style baking when you take time to savour their authentic bakery products. 

I love bread so they didn't have to ask me twice.  I love bread and I was really keen to try these breads.

A week or so later a large box filled with all sorts of fabulous breads came to our door.  I wish there was such a thing as Smellivision because you can't imagine how very good it all smelled when I opened the box!  They had sent me one of each of their loaves.  I was in bread heaven!

This bakery specialises in Artisanal Sour Dough breads, Wheat and Rye breads as well as a Gluten Free range of breads. 

I had tried Gluten Free breads in the past.  There was a time early last year when I thought I might have to go gluten free and I have to say at the outset, gluten free bread does not excite me. The ones I bought at the shop were lacklustre and left a really odd texture/feeling in my mouth that I did not enjoy in the least.   

These were the first breads I tried.  On the left, Gluten Free Sour Dough White, and on the right, Gluten Free Sour Dough Dark Bread with Seeds. 

They each had a very nice texture and appearance, both with a nice chewy crust. Here is what I thought.

GF Sour Dough White - crusty, nice flavour somewhat of a gummy texture in the mouth, but not unpleasant.

GF Sour Dough Dark with Seeds- crusty, nice flavour, seeded, not as much of a gummy texture. I I could  happily eat this and enjoy!

GF Dark with Sunflower Seeds - This was my favourite of the GF breads. It had a beautiful  texture and flavour, with lots of lovely sunflower seeds. I loved the taste.  

Overall I was quite impressed with their Gluten Free Range of Breads.  I could quite happily enjoy these if I had a problem with wheat.  I highly recommend. 

Recipe # 12 Sour Dough Chia Seed Bread.  

A flavoursome white sourdough bread with a dark crust and a generous peppering of chia seeds throughout the loaf. The natural sourdough bread is easier on your digestive system and gut than other loaves, and the chia seeds add extra benefits because they are rich in fibre, omega-3 fats, protein, vitamins and minerals and so can be a powerhouse for your body. This loaf has very quickly established itself in our range as a firm favourite.

Recipe #21 Sour Dough Chia Seed - chewy with nice flavour and texture. Liked the seeds on the crust.  I can easily see why this is a favourite from their range of breads.  I enjoyed this very much.  It was great on its own, but really came alive toasted.  I had two slices of this every night in the evening, simply toasted and spread with some butter.  YUMMY!

Recipe #12, Spirulina & Pumpkin Seed Bread 

Our Spirulina and Pumpkin Seed Loaf has a delicious nutty flavour from the generous coating of pumpkin seeds on the outside of the loaf  which toast as the loaf bakes. Pumpkin seeds are known to be a source of minerals including magnesium, zinc and  manganese and a good source of antioxidants. Spirulina, often referred to as a superfood because of the high levels of nutrients it contains, is of huge benefit to the body as both a protein source, it contains all the essential amino acids as well as B Vitamins, iron and copper. Most of all though people love the wonderful texture and flavour of this loaf and that's what makes it so easy to eat

Recipe #12, Spirulina & Pumpkin Seed Bread - This had a slight green tinge, with a nice texture and a lovely coating of pumpkin seeds on the surface and then scattered throughout the dough.  I found it to be somewhat earthy in flavour, chewy, nutty. Not at all unpleasant, although the "green" earthy flavour was a bit of a surprise.

Recipe #19 Rye 100% with Honey 

 If you like rye breads this will be the loaf for you. Our 100% rye sourdough is a far cry from the solid texture that we often associate with rye breads.  Using our sourdough starter which has matured over several years helps give us a lighter less dense texture whilst not compromising on the delicious rye flavour and high fibre content. This bread has no wheat added to it so is suitable for those avoiding wheat in their diets.    The addition of honey gives it a natural sweetness. This bread also has excellent keeping qualities.

Rye 100% and Honey - I LOVE LOVED THIS, slightly tangy, chewy, robust. Lovely rye flavour.  This was an excellent rye bread.

Recipe #14 Oat and Flax 

We love our Oat and Flax bread served with soup or sliced more thinly it makes a a great sandwich too and is the perfect partner to smoked meat and fish, cheeses or even honey and banana. The oats lend a great texture to the crust and through the bread as do the flax seeds. Flax seeds are rich in omega 3 fats, the healthy fats we need to keep skin and hair healthy and are also a source of plantestrogen which are believed to naturally help balance and stabilise female hormones.

Recipe #14 Oats and Flax - I loved the nubbly bits of oats on the crust.  It had a wonderfully chew texture and a lovely nutty flavour. Yeast Free White Sour Dough.

This is their basic white sour dough. Using natural ingredients is not enough; GRADZ master bakers are also patient. Agnes’s treasured family recipes require a slow fermentation process in which the dough rises gradually for up to 24 hours. During this time, flour and other ingredients are broken down, eventually making the bread gentler to the digestive system. 

Yeast Free Sour Dough -  This was chewy, and had a lovely light texture, with a beautiful flavour and slight tang that was not at all unpleasant.  I thoroughly enjoyed this. 

Overall, I was really pleased and impressed with the Gradz range of  breads.  Their attention to detail was evident and the quality was excellent.  It was lovely just as it and delicious toasted. I made some very tasty sandwiches with the white loaf.  I have to say in all honesty if I was a Coeliac I would definitely buy their Gluten Free Range as it was clearly the best I have ever eaten.

You can read more about their process and range on their website, here.   They are available to purchase online via Ocado. 

e-mail: hi@gradzbakery.co.uk

Thanks very much to Gradz for sending me these tasty breads to try.   

Note - Although I was sent a selection of breads to try for free, I was not required to do a positive review in exchange.

Source: https://theenglishkitchen.blogspot.com/2019/03/gradz-puts-artizan-in-artizan-bread.html

[faithnotes-blog]

What it Means to be Married to A Poor Performer

Then he which had received the one talent came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed: And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine. His lord answered and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed: Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers,... Matthew 25:24-27

Jesus told the famous story of people who were given talents. Some performed well and came back with more talents. But one of them was a “ Poor Performer”. He came back with very bad results. He performed poorly on his mission. Indeed, some wives are Poor Performers like this man who was given one talent. A poor performing wife is a disappointment, to say the least. Much was expected from the one talent given to her. Instead she came back with excuses and accusations.

Poor Performers are powerful accusers and great manufacturers of excuses. Their excuses and counter accusations are the only defences they have for their poor performances.

The Poor Performer is a woman of great promise, greatly admired by the outside world and full of charm and attraction. She presents herself as the beautiful lady who should be everything the pastor has dreamed about and wished for. Unfortunately, this is not to be the case.

Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem, saying, Thus saith the Lord; I remember thee, the kindness of thy youth, the love of thine espousals, when thou wentest after me in the wilderness, in a land that was not sown. Jeremiah 2:2

Anyone who marries a Poor Performer has married a lady who dresses up beautifully and looks nice on the outside, but basically has nothing else to offer. Often, she is a beautifully dressed up but lazy woman who has little energy for anything else apart from giving a good impression.

The Beauty

The Poor Performer is a success in public and all the brothers are left wishing that they had chosen such a charming queen. But the one who actually chooses her is going to be disappointed because she is a Poor Performer in the private life of her marriage. She is excellent on the outside but has little to offer on the inside. There is a surprise in the basket.

Then the cover of lead was raised, and there in the basket sat a woman! He said, “THIS IS WICKEDNESS,” and he pushed her back into the basket and pushed the lead cover down over its mouth. Zechariah 5:7-8 (NIV)

It takes almost no training for a girl to grow up liking clothes, make-up and all the things that make a girl pretty. Because no training is required for this, The Poor Performer comes naturally with the skills to look good. Also, it is natural for ladies to want to give a good impression on the outside. The Poor Performer is good at giving a good impression on the outside.

Before the marriage to the man of God, she is exuberant with great promises of the delights she will offer to her husband when they get married.

Before marriage her tasty dressing styles greatly stir up the interest of her husband-to-be. Her charming smile, long beautiful hair and her positive attitude are the epitome of attraction.

Before marriage, she says how greatly she desires to have sex with her husband. These statements greatly excite her husband-to-be, who imagines with excitement what he will experience when he gets married to her.

Before marriage, she speaks positively of the kitchen and of the food she knows how to prepare. When asked about her culinary skills, she tells of the “chicken sauce” that she plans to make for her husband.

The young deluded pastor is drawn like a magnet to this exciting creature. “Were you created or were you specially crafted?” he asks. He assumes that this attractive personality has all the qualities that he will ever need and that her public appearance corresponds to her skills in private life. What a shock is in store for him! There is a surprise in the basket!

Spirituality: A Poor Performer

One of the worst ever pastors’ wives to be written about was John Wesley’s wife. She was described as being “NO MORE THAN CONVENTIONALLY RELIGIOUS”. This is a description of someone who was not deeply religious and obviously unspiritual.

Unspirituality is the foundation for all poorly performing wives. John Wesley’s wife was such a bad wife that his brother, Charles Wesley said, after enduring insults and complaints from her, “I MUST PRAY OR SINK INTO A SPIRIT OF REVENGE.”

One pastor was greatly disappointed in his wife’s spirituality. He had been deceived by her apparent interest in God and the ministry before they got married. He could not understand how she had become uninterested in spiritual things after they got married. I explained to him, “She was never interested in spiritual things. You were deceived by her apparent zeal for God.”

There are many people in church today who are not interested in spiritual things, but they want a deceived pastor to choose them and marry them. An unspiritual and disobedient lady is a candidate to becoming a Poor Performer in every area of marriage. It indeed takes spirituality and obedience to the Word to be a good performer in all the necessary areas.

The Work of Ministry: A Poor Performer

Instead of helping in the ministry, The Poor Performer is unable to engage the church members and relate to them nicely. The Poor Performer is a poor hostess and does not make church members feel at home when they come around. If you thought you were going to be assisted greatly in ministry, you made a big mistake. The Poor Performer is not hospitable, cannot cater for people, cannot pray, cannot preach, cannot counsel, cannot work on a computer or perform any other administrative work. The Poor Performer cannot even get a job to help with the financial situation at home. A Poor Performer is nothing and has nothing to offer! Marrying her is like buying a doll! Beautiful to look at, but unable to do anything!

Hard work: A Poor Performer

The man of God is shocked to find out that his beautiful bride is lazy. She is not as wonderful as she looks in public. At home she will not wake up early and do hard work. Anything that involves hard work like cooking, cleaning and working around the house is neglected.

Engaging in hard work is different from getting dressed, painting your face, putting on make-up and wearing artificial hair! The Poor Performer is only good at getting her hair done, getting clothes, getting made-up and looking good for the Sunday show. One husband lamented about how he had to wash his wife’s panties because she simply would not wash them. A Poor Performer will leave all the work undone.

Food: A Poor Performer

A young lady who is untrained and untutored at home is a perfect candidate for a Poor Performer. After some time in the marriage it becomes clear to the man of God that his wife can’t cook and won’t cook.

I remember a pastor who would go home to a beautiful wife, who simply did not know how to cook. He had to buy cooked food from town and bring it home so he could eat together with his wife and children.

The “chicken sauce”, which she had spoken of, was an experimental dish she had once made. It was by no means something that could and would be regularly eaten in the house. The Poor Performer had read about various recipes on the internet, but had not actually made any of them! A man of God once became a well-known visitor in every restaurant within ten miles from his house. There was nothing to eat at home and his poorly performing wife would not rise up to the occasion of feeding him.

Another Poor Performer caused her husband to become a chimpanzee. His special meal was bananas and he could eat an entire bunch within a few seconds. His house often lacked food because his wife did not like cooking ; so he would fill his stomach with bananas every time he did not have food to eat.

Bringing up Children: A Poor Performer

A Poor Performer is also poor at bringing up children. She will not get up to give the children a bath and dress them because it is too much work for her to do. Many children are not brought up by their mothers but by maids, servants and other relatives.

Sometimes, the husband is the nanny and the principal caregiver of his children. Meanwhile, The Poor Performer struts around proudly in public, showing off the children that she does not look after! A senior pastor once told me, “For over thirty years of our marriage, my wife never looked after our children. I had to employ people to bath them, to prepare them for school, to cook for them and to help them with their homework. She simply would not do any of the domestic things that had to do with bringing up children.” She was just interested in dressing up and looking good.

Home Appearance: A Poor Performer

In the bedroom, our pretty and exciting creature ties up her hair and hides it in an unevenly shaped synthetic black cloth. This black material creates the most unusual head shape ever seen sitting on top of a rounded head. That is all that is left of the beautiful hairstyle that once attracted the man of God.

Our Poor Performer strips herself of all forms of jewellery and now resembles a boy, perhaps even her own brother. She is not interested in bathing and dressing nicely at home, since no one will see that part of her. But the pastoral husband must endure this new and homely look without complaint. If he dares say anything about anything, he will receive a myriad of excuses and perhaps one or two counter accusations.

Love and Comfort: A Poor Performer

She is superficial in her relationships. She has no hugs, no eye contact, no nice words, no kisses and no friendliness for her husband. She never cuddles up to him because she is not that type. The person who seemed to be an exciting creature outside has nothing to say at home. She claims she is the quiet type and does not know what to say in conversation to her husband.

She never sits by him to talk to him. She never notices if he is dressed properly or not. If she is a singer, she never sings to him or for him. If she is a secretary, she never does secretarial work for him. She is a Poor Performer at home.

Sex: A Poor Performer

In the bed, the sexual performance is of the poorest kind. She offers him “cadaveric sex” 90% of the time. “Cadaveric sex” is like having sex with a cadaver. Just as you can have bad food, you can have bad sex. The Poor Performer is an unwilling partner for 90% of her sexual interaction with her husband. She was interested in sex at the very beginning when she wanted to have a child. When that season passed, her interest in sex ended.

Her lack of spirituality and her stubbornness result in low energy for the sexual act. She soon becomes a mattress upon which her husband may lie if he wants. When she does have sex, she never initiates it!

She will say, “It’s up to him to do whatever he wants. My vagina is available, if he wants to go there.” She is a cadaver, and you need to see it to believe it. There is no interest, no kissing, no sounds, no movement, no oral sex, no styles, no smiles, no energy. Is it any wonder that the man of God stops having sex altogether?

The man of God is in danger of sexual starvation. The Poor Performer is completely uninterested in the sex act and wonders why her pastoral husband makes so much fuss about sex.

The Dangers

1. Resentment: The man of God may begin to resent all the activities of his wife in which she receives public praise and acknowledgement for her graciousness and charm. When people say, “behind every great man is a ‘great woman’”, it irritates the poor performer’s husband. He wants to shout that the statement is not true. “I’m a great man but I do not have a great woman behind me.”

2. Domestication of the husband: The man of God is in danger of being domestically overworked, as he may have to cover up for the housekeeping lapses of his poorly performing wife. The man of God will be seen cooking in private, serving himself food, serving others food, bathing children, dressing them up, doing their hair, cleaning the home, organising the laundry, wiping up the mess in the house and tidying up. He will do all these things in secret and present his wife to the world as a virtuous woman. Meanwhile, the reality is that she is a Poor Performer.

One pastor told me that he was in danger of starvation because his wife simply would not provide food for him. He said, “My children do not even ask their mother for food any more. They just come to me directly and say, ‘Daddy, we are hungry’”.

3. Regret: The man of God may regret his marriage to this beautiful, dressing specialist who does not attract him with her poor performance at home. The Poor Performer lumbers around the bedroom, totally unaware and totally uninterested in anything domestic or anything sexual.

And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Matthew 25:30

4. Cynicism: The man of God is in danger of becoming cynical and unimpressed with any beautiful girl he sees walking around in church. He may begin to wrongly think to himself that all beautiful girls are poor performers.

by Dag Heward-Mills

[lmrphoto]

26. Restos with Gusto

When you live in a small town, you find ways to occupy your time. For me, it was easy - friends and longtime acquaintances know that I like to eat (don’t we all) and I dove into food. These reviews showed me I’ve eaten out a lot, but I don’t regret it. There isn’t much to splurge on out here, so it’s good to make the best of it.here we go:

McDonald’s, 12/22 McLennan St

$

Always entertained going to Macca’s between the cliquey employees, bulldog manager and cast of characters, I mean customers. Wifi’s alright and the food is quick. Watch out for the snakes in the parking lot though.

Mooroopna Pizzeria & Wine Bar, 86/88 McLennan St

$$

Grabbed a parma with Julie here on a Thursday because Bill + Beats was closed! Was pleasantly surprised by the portion size of the chips (fries) and had the Nutella gelato for dessert. Good place for watching sport apparently. Type of place with plastic menus and you have to ask for water. Casual with lots of people in hi-vis (neon construction) clothes.

Bill + Beats, 106 McLennan St

$$

Eaten here several times for brunch, very consistent good quality food. Real gem of Mooroopna, never disappointed. Their dine in chai latte is delicious, as is their coffee, treats, their own take on avo on sourdough with poached egg and muesli, and of course, the pancakes. Have yet to go for dinner but I’m sure it’ll be great. The only critique I have would be if they were more daring with their flavour combos, but hey.

Thai Coconut, 66 High St

$$

Straightforward, fresh Thai food with no surprises. Beautiful dine in plates do reduce portion size but still very filling. Roti and peanut satay is divine. Chicken stir fry is spicy, pad thai comes with just the right amount of bean sprouts. Pad Siew is soft and crunchy all at once. One thing is the laughable numbering on the first page of their menu, but I still wish they did delivery. Would eat again, though I do feel like the owner has rushed us out after 8:30 on a Thursday both times we’ve been.

Fryers Street Food Store, 53 Fryers St

$$$

Oh Fryers. I wish I could fit you in my pocket and take you with me. The decor, wine store, cheeses and walls lined with gourmet spreads steal me every time. Been here for breakfast, coffee and takeaway treats. The Siracha poached egg portion I had could have been bigger, but I’ve heard the pancakes are yum. I will fight someone over the last slice of fudge cake in the display. Oreo cheesecake and English cheese were well received. Planning my next trip and seeing the same waitress who always seems to be there. Good coffee.

Aanagan, 67 Fryers St

$$$

This Indian resto is an offshoot from a Melbourne operation. My butter chicken came with green onion. Questioning the authenticity of this place. New, also overpriced.

Bonjass, 276B Wyndham St

$$

My most recent culinary crush. The sticky date pudding with homemade butterscotch sauce is to die for and the gnocchi could inspire you to quit your day job to write a sonnet type of good. I can’t say enough about the high quality of food that doesn’t belong in an empty restaurant. Every person should find a new place like Bonjass, reserve a table and fend off other diners when this place takes flight. But get in line, because I’m first. Also very affordable for all food made in-house. Tucked away up a flight of stairs with lots of wood accents and a balcony for sipping wine in the summer. Did I mention they do an eighties night?

Degani, 12-13/8025 Goulburn Valley Hwy

$$

Chain restaurant in part of a mall. Wasn’t impressed by the Parma and found the eating area to be quite cold by the windows. Bruschetta was good. Would give it another go but a little far out of the way for me.

Brother Pablo

109 Fryers St

$$$

Bought the worst medium sized cappuccino of my life for five dollars. Took two sips and chucked it. Nope. Milky crap.

The Vic Hotel, Corner of Wyndham and Fryers Streets

$

Feel like setting the kids loose on a play structure? Feel like gambling while they play? And walking out of the restaurant to use the toilet? Also there’s $15 deals and very average food? You’ve come to right place if you’re an ambitious grandparent or worn out babysitter.

Aussie Hotel, 73 Fryers St

$

I can’t begin to start on what an average place to eat this is. But it also can’t make up its mind. Either get bigger TVs or replace them with art, everyone is squinting and not paying attention. And there no ambiance or music. Try to sit in the original part of the building or outside if you can. Also the “Mexican bean salad” is none of those things and should be removed from the menu.

Flanagan’s Irish pub, Corner of Wyndham and Fryers Streets

$

Best place to watch sport on a projector screen or worry about why the tables are sticky. I did both.

Lemon Tree Cafe, 98 Fryers St

$$

I feel like everyone in here for brunch is living their best life and files their taxes. They’re wearing athletic gear after a morning yoga sesh post run coming in for their weekly orange juice catchup. Seriously good food, always packed and the service is rushing to get the food out. Great coffee. Everything here is delicious and well plated.

Noble Monks, 120/126 Maude St

$$

Been here for brunch and dinner. Alright coffee. I got the caramel banana hotcakes and couldn’t finish them they were so large. I thought they were delicious but heard other reviews that they can be dry, so a bit of a hit or miss situation. Dinner is a similar story. Their bruschetta is $11 for one piece of toast cut in half. The lamb curry was far from it and read more as a lamb stew poured over rice. I think this is a good after work drink and aps type of place, but shoot for the morning if you want to eat here. For perspective, at prime brunch time you can still walk up and grab a table whereas at Lemon Tree there’s a wait. Monks is finding its way methinks.

Mahal Green Olive Indian Restaurant, 189 Coriol St

$$

This is authentic Indian and as such it takes a while to get to the table, but it’s cry-over-your-breakup delicious. Would eat again if I don’t want to feel my face (or anything else) from the unapologetic spiciness. Also the Bollywood videos are brilliant. Don’t think I’ll find anything better than this.

Cafe by the Little Gourmet Food Company, Wyndham St

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The thing with little places like this is a lot can vary day to day. My first visit I got a lemon slice, bacon and egg roll and cappuccino and had an amazing time. Came back a month later and the roll had changed its bun and lost its insides, cappuccino was average and I can’t honestly say I want to go back and be disappointed again. My first time here on a Monday was so good! Just let me love you. Don’t change. Very charming storefront, decor and outdoor set up. Sad they close Sundays and the patio can be noisy from the road, though the hedge does help.

KFC Shepparton City, 465 Wyndham St

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Probably the biggest and most ornate KFC I’ve seen, food is consistent with the brand but the corporate architecture is unreal and slightly disconcerting. Hi-vis and short shorts a-go-go. Flagship retail location.

Pizza Hut Shepparton, 525-535 Wyndham St

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I filled out a customer review on their website for this experience. I can only give the benefit of the doubt and assume it was the teller’s first shift like ever, but it was also on the entire team. Floor was wet, tables and chairs were sticky and the food was bad. Also there were no rubbish bins. Pizza Hut-put-putted no thank you.

Peking City, 98 Wyndham St

$$$

This Chinese-Australian restaurant is a delightful surprise in a place like Shepparton. Reminded me strongly of Ruby’s back in Ottawa. Easy to spend a lot of money quickly but it’ll be worth it, maybe. My Singapore fried noodle the second time was dry and the rice was crunchy, but I believe this was a bad night for Peking. Again, not consistent food. More testing needed.