#tender cabbage leaves

[mariorossello]

Stuffed Cabbage Rolls Recipe This cabbage rolls recipe features tender cabbage leaves filled with savory beef and rice, simmered in tomato soup for a Polish-inspired favorite.

[ravenclawinthetardis]

Stuffed Cabbage Rolls - Main Dishes This recipe for cabbage rolls uses tender cabbage leaves that have been stuffed with flavorful beef and rice and simmered in tomato soup to create a traditional Polish dish.

[tropes-and-tales]

Don't Gloat

(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing, mild violence (a misunderstanding), smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.

Word Count:  7289

AN:  Requested by an anonymous person, place, or thing!

AN2: Drabble? I don't know her, apparently.

Your first real fight is over chicken.

You squabble, pretty much from day one.  Carmy hires you to help in the kitchen, and Richie immediately takes an intense dislike to you.  Adding you upsets the delicate ecosystem of The Beef.  You are unnecessary.  Richie makes it known on your first day.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns an hour into service.  “Cousin doesn’t run things.”

“Seems like he does,” you shoot back.

“I’m the manager here.”

Here is where the dislike really starts.  Richie is rude and sarcastic, but you’re a chameleon.  You can shift and change your demeanor to match what someone is giving you, so when Richie is rude and sarcastic to you, you respond in kind.

You call him “Mister Manager” in a tone dripping with sarcasm, and by the end of that first shift, Richie completely hates you.

The feeling is mutual by the end of your second shift.

At first, you just squabble.  You trade barbs and insults.  When Richie throws a temper tantrum over Carmy’s organization of the spices, you pout and turn to Ibra and posit that Richie is grumpy because he needs a juice box and a nap.  Which makes Ibra cock his head at you.  He speaks English impeccably, but sometimes he misses the finer nuances of language like sarcasm. 

“I do not think we have juice boxes here,” Ibra says, and Tina swats him as she walks past.

“She’s being sarcastic, you old bitch,” she tells him.

The allusion to Richie being a toddler isn’t far off.  He acts childish all the time.  He flings cookware around when he’s having a tantrum.  He swears, he throws out middle fingers like an angry pre-teen. 

He hides your expensive Henckles knives.  He turns the heat up or down when your back is turned.  Once, he parks you in behind The Beef, and when you go to leave, he’s nowhere to be found—you end up doing a thirty-six point turn, a fraction at a time, before you can properly pull out and drive away.

But your first real fight is over chicken.

The meat delivery is wrong one day.  You’re short on beef, but there’s five whole chickens, and Carmy throws up his hands and tells you to come up with something.

So you do. 

You roast them low and slow so they stay tender, and you’re putting the finishing touches on the sauce—an adobo-based barbeque that’s the perfect blend of tangy and smoky—when Richie strolls in.  He’s in his stupid leather jacket and ridiculous blue track pants, and he announces himself with his usual grinning, “what’s up, you fucking lizards?”

Sweeps and Manny call out their hellos, but Richie ignores them.  He’s already super-focused on you…and the sauce you’re stirring over a low heat.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks.  He stands too close to you, dips his head close to the pot, and takes a loud sniff of it.  Then rears back with a grimace, like you’re simmering a pot of shit and not a finely balanced sauce for your roasting chickens.

“It’s barbeque sauce.  For the chicken.”

“What fucking chicken?”

“Meat delivery was fucked up,” Carmy calls across the kitchen. 

Richie scoffs and turns to Carmy, and he gestures at you and your sauce.  “No offence, Cousin, but the place is called ‘The Beef.’”

“No offence, Cousin, but fuck off,” Carmy replies.

“Heaven forbid we try something new,” you add.  You snap the heat off and settle a lid over the pot to allow the flavors time to mellow together.  Once the chicken is done, you’ll shred it and mix it in.  You have a red cabbage slaw planned for it, and thin slices of sharp cheddar to round it out.  You turn towards the refrigerator, but Richie blocks your path.

“Nothing Italian about whatever the fuck that is.”  He glares down at you; he’s half a head taller than you, but he has a way of puffing out his chest like a bantam rooster spoiling for a fight.

Maybe other people are cowed by his posturing, but you’re unimpressed and not scared at all.

“It’s about as Italian as ‘Jerimovich.’”

His chest puffs out more, and he takes a half step closer to you.  This close, you can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to him, the old man cologne he splashes on with a heavy hand, the subtler scent of laundry detergent. 

“People come here every day and get the same thing,” he says.  “Same order every fuckin’ day.  No one is gonna order whatever fancy Noma bullshit you’re trying to pull out of your ass.”

You take a half step up to him and puff out your chest, and it makes Richie falter for a moment.  He leans back, just a fraction, but you note the movement and smirk up at him.  You reach out and poke him in the sternum with a forefinger, driving home each point.

“One, this isn’t Noma bullshit.  It’s literally slow-roasted chicken.  Two, it’s a pretty simple sauce.  Maybe it seems fancy to you because it’s more challenging to your palate than chicken nuggets.  Three, some customers might appreciate a change in their usual lunch order.  Not everyone is so resistant to change, Cousin.”

Your use of the familiar nickname makes his nostrils flare and his eyes widen in anger.  “I’m not your fucking Cousin.”

“Sure you are, Cousin.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll save you a sandwich, Cousin.”  The thought occurs to you that you’re being childish now, that Richie has brought out some immature part of you, and you think it’s kinda fun, being a juvenile brat at work and leaning into the fight.

“Fucking stop it.”

“Stop what, Cousin?”

He turns away from you so quick, it makes you blink in surprise.  “Fucking bitch,” he mutters to himself, but he’s striding across the kitchen towards the office, and he’s calling for Carmy, so you follow at his heels and call for Carmy too.

“Yo, Cousin, can you fucking fire her already?  Jesus fucking Christ, I—” he starts, but you cut him off, mimic his growling voice and Chicago accent.

“Yo, Carmy, when are we gonna fire Richie already?  I mean, the place is changing—”

It makes Richie go fully nuclear.  The mention of change makes him apoplectic.  He turns and crowds you against the door jamb, and he gets right in your face:  so close that you can see his eyes aren’t completely blue—they are flecked with grey, like bits of mica in pavement.  You’re startled for a moment, surprised to find that his eyes are beautiful, but you obviously don’t say anything because he’s snarling in your face.

“Fuck you!” he spits out, and he points a finger inches from your face.  “Fuck you!  Nothin’ is changin’ here!  Nothin’ needs to change!”

And then he gives you his patented Richie double-chin flick, and he mutters some Italian insult you don’t know, and he’s marching through the kitchen to leave.

Not before he sweeps your mise en place off the counter, sending thin-sliced cabbage and vinegar flying.

Carmy stares at you with a look that is purely beleaguered.  He sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands, and he runs them through his hair before he sighs again.

“Whatever you and Richie have going on?  Squash that shit, Chef.”

You nod, embarrassed at rising—or sinking—to Richie’s childishness.  “Yes, Chef,” you reply.

-----

“Squashing it” mostly means that you and Richie only fight when Carmy isn’t within earshot.

Your fighting still entails getting in each other’s faces.  It still means you insult each other, albeit more quietly.  You hiss insults at him, he grumbles them back.  You part when Carmy shows up, and you each stew in your separate corners and wait for the next round.

You start to suss out where the limits are.  You insult him as a father one single time, and the flash of hurt on his face makes you hold up your hands in a truce and apologize. 

He insults you once as a woman with daddy issues, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut.  You did grow up without a father—he died when you were six, and your only memories of him are full of pain from the stomach cancer that slowly killed him.  But you must show the hurt on your face too because Richie takes a step backwards away from you, stammers out an apology too.

All told, once you know each other’s hard limits, you actually fight pretty nicely, and if anyone notices it, no one says anything.

-----

Sunday nights are a good time to come in to The Beef and set yourself up for the week.  You work it out with Carmy because it gives him a break and gives you a few more hours.  You enjoy the time there with the restaurant being closed—you blast your music, you sing along at the top of your lungs as you rotate stock, make detailed shopping lists for Carmy, and make sure everything is clean.

If one thing infuriates you, it’s the way certain national media outlets focus on Chicago as a cesspool of violence.  But it is a large city, and violence does happen, so when you’re in the basement of The Beef and hear the beep of the alarm system as it is deactivated, you immediately feel ice cold all over.  The alarm system, Ibra told you once, is easily overcome, and The Beef has been robbed before.

You glance around and see that you’re trapped, unless you want to rush up the steps (not advisable) or shimmy out a tiny window at street level (also not advisable).  There’s nothing in the way of weapons in the basement either, so you arm yourself with a half-burnt cookie sheet and tremble as you listen to the heavy tread above you.

Maybe they’ll just trash the place and leave.  There’s nothing worth stealing, unless they want to wheel out the massive, ancient Hobart.  Maybe they’ll get into Marcus’s stash of good vanilla.  Maybe they’ll—

Maybe they’ll make their way to the top of the stairs.  Maybe they’ll pause there and start walking down to where you wait.  You try not to breathe too loud, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your pulse is in your ears, and you’re flooded with adrenaline as the shoes of your would-be assailant come into view.

You don’t hear Richie’s voice when he calls out your name.  You’re too panicked.  You don’t hear him, and you don’t even register him when he rounds the corner—he’s in his usual track pants and leather jacket—because you’re fully in fight-or-flight mode…and independent of your will, your body chooses fight.

“Fuck you!” you scream, and you swing the cookie sheet directly at his head with all the force you can muster.  Your assailant stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, and you drop the pan and try to scramble past him, but you trip over his foot in your panic and fall hard, cracking your shinbone against the lowest step.

If you ever idly wondered how you’d react in a real life-or-death scenario, here is your answer:  you scream and scream, and you clutch one hand to your throbbing shin but flail your other hand at the person reaching for you, and it’s not until you smell him—the familiar cigarette/old man cologne smell—that your panic ebbs a little.

And then you see those blue eyes flecked with grey, and even if Richie is your enemy at work, he’s never really been an enemy in the true sense of the word.  The relief that you aren’t about to be raped or murdered floods you so suddenly that you burst into tears. 

And then you hug him, your arms so tight around his middle that he breathes out a sharp oof, but then he wraps one arm around your trembling form while the other clutches his bleeding nose in an attempt to staunch the blood.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks.  His voice is thick and nasally, but there’s a hint of amusement to it.

“Thought you were an intruder.”  You release him from your hold, and you will yourself to stop shaking. 

“Carmy.”  He shakes his head.  “Guess Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole didn’t tell you I was coming by.”

“He did not.”

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled napkin.  He presses it to his nose and winces, and your panic is replaced by shame.  You’ll never live this down, you realize.  Richie is going to tell everyone first thing tomorrow, and he’ll add his usual Richie flourishes to make your screams more shrill, your flailing more erratic in the retelling.

His nose stops bleeding, and he checks it tentatively.  He prods at the swollen skin, red that is going to bruise by morning.  He fixes you with a curious look.

“You hit harder than I would have thought.”

“I play softball.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park.  At the North Avenue fields.”

He huffs at that.  Clears his throat.  “Yeah, my daughter has t-ball there.”

Your panic is gone now, and you feel more like yourself.  Your leg throbs at where you banged it, and it will be bruised by morning like Richie’s face.  You limp over to the big table and gather up your coat and purse.

“Don’t do that,” you tell Richie.

“Do what?”

“Don’t…whatever.  Talk to me nice.  Tell me about your daughter.  Don’t do that.”

He snorts and says, “why the fuck not?”

“Because we’re not friends, and you scared the shit out of me, and now I’m all keyed up and just want to get home instead of having an impromptu bonding session with the one guy at The Beef who truly, honesty hates me.”

“Alright, fine.  You’re a fucking head-case to freak out the way you did, and I think you broke my fucking nose.  Better?”

It startles a laugh out of you, and your laughter makes Richie grin.  It’s shy, and he ducks his head, but you catch it all the same.

He clears his throat again, then asks if you drove there.  You tell him no—you had a premium parking spot on your street, so you took the L.  He nods at that, and he seems to be thinking through something, so you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder and wait for him to say something.

“Let me drive you home, at least, “he finally offers.  “You’re all sorts of fucked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are.  Someone looks at you wrong on the train, gonna catch an assault charge.”

“You’d love to see me in prison,” you reply.  “Out of your way.  No one left to defiantly make a delicious chicken sandwich special and destroy the system here.”

“Asshole.”  He shakes his head, then gestures for you to take the stairs ahead of him.  “I’m driving you home.  Let’s go.”

You can’t admit that a ride sounds fantastic.  You do feel keyed up, anxious and twitchy, and even if it’s Richie, you’re grateful for the offer.

Even so, as you limp upstairs, the pain in your leg makes it easier to admit to him.  You turn as he resets the alarm, and you thank him, softly.

“Yeah, fine.  Whatever.”  He points at his car, then grumbles, “c’mon already.”

-----

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Sunday evenings become yours and Richie’s thing.  The work should go twice as fast, but Richie doesn’t work so much as… not work.  He leans in the doorway of the walk-in as you take inventory, he perches on the counter as you make giardiniera for the next day.  He sits in the office as you write out the order list for Carmy, and he gripes about how long you’re taking, how he has better things to do.

If that were true, why does he spend every Sunday with you?  You doubt Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole told him to, yet he shows up every week and complains the entire time.  He complains the entire drive to your place, and when you thank him for the ride, he either flips you off or makes a jacking-off motion with his hand before he peels away from your curb.

“You almost done?” he asks now.  “Got shit to do.”

“You don’t have shit to do.”  You check the takings from last week, do a quick calculation in the margin of the print-out.  “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

“Why, you afraid I might introduce a dish that isn’t entirely Italian-American approved?”

He grumbles, “nothin’ needs to change.  Menu’s fine the way it is.”

“You really don’t have to stay, Richie.  I can handle myself.”

“Bullshit you can.”  He leans forward, taps the side of his nose.  “You handle yourself so well, you dislocated my fucking nose.”

“And it gave your face some character,” you retort.

“What’s wrong with my face?”

You glance at him, roll your eyes.  “Aside from the fact it’s always in my face, glaring or stirring up shit?  Nothing.”

He leans back in his chair again and sighs.  “I don’t stir up shit.”

“You do.”

“Don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I fucking don’t.”

“You talk way too much, Richard.”

“Don’t call me fucking Richard.  You sound like my asshole mother-in-law.”  He pauses, then amends it to, “my former asshole mother-in-law.”

A long beat of silence passes.  You calculate the meat order, the vegetables, the shelf stable stuff.  You balance out the order against where there’s already overdue bills—Carmy is juggling the vendors as best he can, and you try to give him relief where you can—

“Done yet?”

“Nope.”  You cross out the one line for the produce vendor, split it between two vendors.  “What are you in such a hurry for?”

“Told you.  I got stuff to do.”

You glance over at him.  He does seem more keyed up.  His leg bounces up and down, and he wrings his hands in his lap. 

“What sort of stuff?” you ask.

He mumbles his answer, and you miss it at first.  When you arch an eyebrow at him, he repeats it.  An embarrassed, “got a date.”

You pause in your writing and turn to face him.  Fak told you once about Richie’s imploded marriage, and he had heavily implied that Richie was still pining for his ex-wife.  “A date?” 

He shrugs.  “Kind of a date.”

“What’s kind of a date?”

Another shrug, and he fixes his gaze to the dirty tile floor.  “We went out last week, and we talked about grabbing a drink tonight.  I was gonna text her after I drop you off.”

“Sounds like a regular date to me.”

He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lets them fall again.  “I dunno.  Wasn’t really feeling it, you know?”

You turn completely to face him, your list forgotten.  “Then why agree to a second date?”

Another shrug, a sheepish lift and fall of his shoulders.  The two of you are toeing the line of near-friendship, your usual squabbling turning into an honest-to-god friendly chat, but maybe Richie doesn’t have any confidants in his life, because he sighs, then mutters about how she seemed cold, how she wasn’t charmed by his Bill Murray voicemail greeting story, but how he thought he should try anyway—

“Richie, I’m not your gal pal in a rom-com, but if you aren’t feeling it, don’t do it.  Jesus, that’s just common sense.”

He fixes you with a glare.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize you were a goddamned relationship expert.”

“It’s common sense.”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

You bristle at the question.  Your love life is about as dead as The Beef’s commercial credit, but Richie doesn’t need to know that.  But you hesitate long enough that he can guess, and he laughs at you, and you bristle more.

“I knew it!”  He points at you, and you swat at his hand until he lowers it.  “You give off this whole ‘hasn’t been laid in a long time’ vibe.”

You turn away from him and bend your head back to your ordering list.  “Shut up,” you mumble.

“All those prissy little dishes you add to the menu.  You’re all wound up.  It makes sense.”

“My culinary excellence has nothing to do with my love life or lack thereof.”  You hope your tone is even and nonchalant, but you fear it comes out as defensive.  Which it must, because Richie holds up his hands again.

“No judgement.  It’s tough out there.  I get it.”

You groan and turn away from him, twisting yourself to get his smirking face out of your peripheral.  “You should leave.  Go get ready for your kind-of date.”

“Nah.”

“Seriously, you can go.”

“Nah.”  You hear his deep breath, then a beat later, he continues.

“If you ever want to blow off some steam, we could…”  He trails off, but his intent is clear, and you feel a prickly heat break out across your skin. 

“…shut up, Richie.”

You turn a little and he reappears in your peripherals.  He presses his hands together in a prayer position, then presses his fingertips near his mouth in an expression of thoughtfulness. 

“Shut up, Richie isn’t no, Richie.”

“It’s most certainly no, Richie.”

“Look at me.”

“I gotta finish this list and send it to Carmy—”

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You can’t.  You stare at your handwriting—the 50 pounds of cake flour Marcus needs—and you feel yourself heating up at the sudden image of you and Richie—no, you shove the mental image away, shake your head to clear it, and the man notices all of it.

“Why can’t you look at me?” he asks, and his voice is soft, low.  A graveled rumble, roughened by the cigarettes he chain-smokes when he’s not inside, and you don’t know if it really has been that long, but it’s a step-progression of reactions in your body.  The prickle of heat along your skin, the way your skin feels too tight.  The way your mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.

The strong, traitorous pulse of desire between your legs.  Fuck.

“Wouldn’t have to mean anything,” he continues with that low voice.  “No one would have to know.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Still not hearing a no, sweetheart.”

You breathe in deeply through your nose, then turn to face him squarely.  You look him right in his eyes—those bright blue eyes, flecked with grey, beautiful—and say, “No, Richie.”

He stares back at you, and a smile slowly unfurls across his face.  A real smile, not his usual shit-eating grin or smarmy smirk.  A real smile that, paired with his gorgeous eyes, makes his face transform into something beautiful.  It’s like he’s lifted his mask for a moment and is showing you who he really is.

“You’re tempted.”  He sounds in awe of the revelation, and he leans back against the wall.  “Holy shit, you’re really tempted by it.”

“No, I’m—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off.  “You are.”  His smile stays fixed on his face, and he shakes his head.  “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

You grumble out the weakest rebuttal, but he only laughs and shakes his head again, and the last half hour is passed in uncomfortable silence:  you as you email the shopping list to Carmy with hands you will into steadiness, and Richie as he grins at you and chuckles to himself.

Of course he drives you home, just as he always does.

And of course he parks his car and comes up to your apartment when you invite him up, which is a first.

*****

A therapist would have a lifetime of secure business if Richie ever decided to pursue therapy for himself.  Not that he would—feelings are bullshit, and life is tough all over—but if he did…there’d be a lot of deep shit to mine.

At the core of him, Richie is desperately insecure.  He had a dicey childhood, and he glommed on the Berzatto family to make up for his own family’s shortcomings.  He had Tiff, for a glorious while, then lost her.  He has his daughter, but only part-time.  He lost Mikey, the nearest thing to a brother, and now he’s slowly losing The Beef as it becomes something more than a sandwich shop.

No wonder he feels lost all the time.  No wonder he lashes out and hurts those closest to him.

No wonder he’s been riding your ass for months, trying to get you to quit even as his initial dislike has mellowed out to acceptance and then to…something else he won’t name.

He can’t lie to himself:  that night in the basement shifted things.  Maybe you concussed him along with the dislocated nose.  Maybe he has slight brain damage.  He can’t account for it any other way, how seeing you so terrified caused a sea-change in him.  How feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.

He won’t name it.  He won’t even think it.  The most he’ll admit is, “maybe I don’t completely hate her.”

Which somehow turns into this moment.  The two of you awkwardly standing in your entryway, unsure if the other is bluffing, unsure if the other is serious.  There’s too much bad blood in your shared past, and you each are expecting the other to say “sike!,” to turn it into a humiliating story to share in the morning with the crew.

You’re both wrong. 

“So, uh, nice place.”  He looks around your apartment and rubs the back of his neck.  “You got a lot of books.”

“I like to read.”

“Yeah.  Nice.”  He takes a few steps deeper into your place, and he studies the titles on the nearest bookshelf.  “Stephen King.  Clive Barker.  You like the spooky shit, huh?”

“Nothing as scary as being ambushed in the basement at night by you.”

He snorts, shakes his head.  As he’s softened towards you, your teasing has gotten gentler too.  You’ve always rose to meet his energy, and now that he’s not actively despising you (he won’t name it, he will not), you aren’t actively despising him.

“Nothing as scary as seeing a giant fucking sheet pan flying at your face—”

You cut him off.  “Okay, Richie.  Enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Enough words.  More action.”  You face him and lift your eyebrows challengingly.  “Unless this was all a ruse.”

He shakes his head.

“Unless this is just a prank to embarrass me later.”

He shakes his head again, and he flexes his hands along his sides.  He’s itching to reach out and touch you—he remembers the feel of you in his arms, the way you tucked so perfectly against him when you were scared.  You had been relieved to see it had been him; you had felt safe enough to reach for him, and he’s been chasing that high ever since.  A therapist would make short work of this moment, but Richie wants to feel important to you again.  He wants to feel like you need him to protect you, to shelter you.  He wants to feel like a man, needed, necessary—

You’re talking but he doesn’t register the words.  Instead, he reaches for you, pulls you to him, and when you look up at him in surprise, he dips his head and kisses you.

It’s brutal at first.  He’s out of practice.  He’s certainly never kissed someone like you—someone so infuriatingly challenging—and he mashes his lips too hard against yours, can feel your wince as you struggle to kiss him back.  So he breaks the kiss and tries again, much more carefully, and it’s so much better:  the softness of your lips, the quiet moan you give as you kiss him back.

Maybe you need it bad, but he needs it just as bad, and when he considers why he does, he pushes the thought away completely.  Because if he thinks on it too much in this moment, if he thinks on how good it feels, the way you tug at his clothes—eager but shy, your hands steady but your eyes unable to meet his—he’d have to face an uncomfortable truth.

Still, he needs to see you.  Needs to look you in the eye.  He grasps your chin and tilts your face until you’re looking at him.

“You okay with this?”  He says it softly.  He says it as kindly as he can.

“Yeah.”  You nod, then add, “no one needs to know, right?”

“Right.”

“No one needs to know.”

“Exactly.”

You offer him a smile, and it’s genuine.  It’s not your normal smart-ass smirk, the way one corner of your mouth lifts higher than the other.  It’s a real smile, and he has to push that uncomfortable truth away again because if you’re cute when you smirk, you’re beautiful when you smile, and Richie can’t dwell on the fact.

“C’mon then, Richard.  Bedroom’s this way.”

“Asshole,” he huffs out, but you push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, and you tug him down your hallway. 

You alternate and he lets you strip him and yourself—a piece of his clothing, a piece of yours.  You leave a trail so that you’re both nearly naked once you’re in the bedroom.  He stands in front of you, his boxers tented, and he takes in the sight of you.  In standard, everyday lingerie—dark grey bra and panties—but the everyday shit makes his mouth run dry.  Elaborate lingerie is not really his thing, but seeing a woman in her everyday shit, the comfortable cotton shit…that feels more special, somehow.  Like you woke up that morning and put on the functional stuff, but now here you are, nearly naked for him.

You always rise to meet his energy.  He’s openly ogling you now, and you gaze back at him, openly staring back.  He has a moment of doubt—maybe he should lift more, cut back on beers after work—but your eyes are blown dark with desire, and it makes his cock twitch to see it.

You seem to want him as much as he wants you. 

“C’mere, you fucking pain in the ass,” he growls, and you roll your eyes but bridge the distance between you.  You press the length of your near-naked body against his, and the sudden touch makes him bite back a groan.  He puts his hands on your waist, and you lay your palms against his chest, and you kiss again.

The kiss grows and grows.  He bullies his way into your mouth, sweeps his tongue and licks against your mouth, and you answer in kind.  You kiss him back, and your hands stroke his chest, his shoulders, his arms.  One snakes lower and grasps him through his boxers, and he swears against your lips at the feel of your palm stoking him.

He pushes you backwards towards the bed.  He pushes you until you hit the bed, and then he pushes you down, but you reach out and grasp him golden chain and tug him down to join you. 

You always rise to meet him.  He takes charge and slots himself between your legs, but you move eagerly.  When he lowers himself onto you, still partially dressed, you lift yourself up and press against him.  Your clothed breasts against his chest, and he dips his head and tugs the cups of your bra down until you’re exposed to him.  He lowers his head and kisses you, works his mouth against you.  He sucks a mark on each curve of your breast, right where your bra will cover.  He wants you to see them and think of him, a pair of mementos to this moment.

“Fuck, Richie.”  You breathe it out, and your hand cups the back of his head.  You hold him against you, and he’s too happy to stay here for a while:  sucking against your nipples, biting lightly until you squirm.  Laving your tender buds with the flat of his tongue, pinching and tugging until you shove him away with a groan.

“Too much,” you whine, but you tangle in his chain again and tug his mouth to yours.  He kisses you, relishes how flushed your skin feels under his lips as he kisses his way across your face, down your neck, across your bare shoulders.  He pauses long enough to undo your bra in earnest, tosses it aside.  Then he kisses his way down your chest again, traces his tongue further down to your soft belly until his chin is perched right on the waistband of your panties.

“Can I?” he asks.  He traces a finger under the lace edging, and he watches your face.  You gaze back at him, your eyes still dark and pupils blown.  Your lips are swollen, and your chest rises and falls with how hard you’re breathing.

You nod.  “You can take them off.”

“Is that it?  Nothing else?”

You laugh, breathless.  “Some other time.  Really want you to fuck me instead.”

Some other time.  The thought makes Richie’s dick twitch at the idea of doing this another time.

You feel him twitch against you.  You laugh again to feel it, and you lift a leg to hook it clumsily along the waistband of his boxers.  You try to push them down, and then you’re chanting “come on, come on, come on” as he scrambles to shuck off the rest of his clothing, scrambles to hook his fingers under your panties as he draws them down your legs. 

“Condoms in the bedside stand,” you tell him, and he opens the drawer, snags one.  He notes the bright pink vibrator there but doesn’t remark on it.  He’ll tuck the image away and revisit it days later in the shower:  a rich bit of fantasy where he pictures you masturbating to the thought of him.

He tears the foil with his teeth, and he watches you as he rolls the condom on himself.  You’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, better than he ever imagined, and a galling little voice in the back of his head asks, “so you’ve been imagining her, huh, asshole?”

He ignores the voice and what it might say next.  He stands over you and asks instead, “how do you want me, sweetheart?”

Another smile.  A genuine one.  “However you want it.”

“Anal, then.”

It startles a laugh out of you, and Richie thinks he might love that—the way he surprises you into laughing.  You prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him.  You kick out a bare foot and press your toes low against his belly, centimeters away from touching the tip of his cock where it stands at attention.

“Not that,” you chide.  “That requires prep.”

“Not a no, sweetheart.”

“It’s a no for this moment.”

“Hmm.  Interesting.”  He grips your ankle and circles it with his hand, and he bends your leg.  Pushes it away from him, pushes it closer to you, and it reveals your gorgeous pussy to him:  the neat-trimmed curls, the slick arousal, the swollen bud of your clit.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he groans to see you.  “Gotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.”

“Missionary works for me,” you reply.  “Old reliable.”

So he climbs onto you.  He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide.  You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.

“Good?” he asks.

“You haven’t done much,” you point out. 

“Smart-ass.”  He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and he drags the tip of himself through your folds.  He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance.  He looks down and pushes just the tip in, and the sight of it—barely inside you, the promise of burying himself inside you—makes his vision go fuzzy around the edges.

“Richie.”  You reach up with one hand to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes.  “Fuck me, please.”

Your other hand finds the small of his back.  You can’t quite reach his ass, so you lay your palm against the small of his back and urge him forward, and he pushes into you.  He goes slow but steady, and he hears your small gasp as your tight cunt makes room for him.  He feels the stretch of it, the smooth muscles twitching at him, and he studies your face for any pain but finds none.

“Pussy’s gripping at me,” he grits out once he’s seated in you.  “Guess you needed it bad after all.”

“Don’t gloat.”  You bear down on him, squeeze him like a fist, and it makes him choke out a curse.  “You needed it bad too, I think.”

“Not complaining here, sweetheart.”

You take his chain in your hand and tug him down to you again.  You kiss him, then mumble against his mouth, “so fuck me then, Richard.  Move.”

He does as you ask.  You’re a pain in the ass, and you’re a representative of all the change occurring in his life without his permission, but he wants to make it good for you.  He remembers the way you clung to him that night in the basement, and he wants to capture that feeling again…even as he shoves the memory aside and begins to fuck you in earnest.

He doesn’t thrust in and out so much as up and down; he learned this move a long time ago and knows it feels better for his partner.  His thrusts hit every part—each reseating brushes the tip of him against the end of you, and it makes you whine each time.  The slide in and out, at this angle, draws along the firm bud of your clit.  And each time he pushes himself home, the base of him grinds along your clit too, and it makes him feel like a million bucks when you gasp out his name, warn him that you’re close—

“Fuck, fuck.  God, Richie, I’m c-close.  Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—"

And then it tears out of you:  the hard snap of your hips as you lift them to meet his most punishing thrust, the way you tremble under him, your legs shaking, your eyes rolled back in your head.  The way your cunt grips him, ripples against him until it feels like he’s being pulled into your body, and the thought takes hold of him.  He wants to crawl inside you, wants to fill you with himself, wants to merge with you, and the thoughts are so rapid-fire he feels insane for a moment before he settles.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, surprised.  “Holy shit.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t gloat.”  You lift your head and kiss the side of his neck, and he adjusts himself and keeps fucking you.

He’s hit his rhythm now; he deals you hard thrusts and you take them.  You beg for more.  His arms burn as he arches over you.  His calves burn as he drives his cock into you, and sweat beads along his hairline.  He’s covered in a sheen of it, but he doesn’t stop.  He fucks you hard, and his gold necklace swings in time to his thrusts.  It hits you in your face until you hook it with a finger and put the fucking thing in your mouth, and he doesn’t know why it's so hot—maybe it makes him think of your mouth on parts of him instead of just his necklace. 

He makes you come a second time, and it breaks around you again, leaves you trembling and incoherent, but after you recover, you push him over.  It’s easy for you to do—he’s winded as fuck from all his smoking—and Richie finds himself underneath you as you ride him.

He’s happy for the break, but he’s happy to see this side of you.  Any shyness from earlier is long gone.  You sit astride him and bounce on his cock, and it makes your tits bounce too, and he can look down at where he disappears into your tight, wet pussy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he tells you so.

“S’fine,” you pant out.  “Want you to come too, Richie.”

Then you reach down and take his hands in yours, you place his hands on your tits, and he sort of loves how you take charge at the end.  You push your chest into his hands and ride him, and once he’s touching you there—pinching at your nipples until you arch your back—you reach down and touch yourself.  He watches, transfixed, as you rub a tight circle against your clit, and he can feel you getting close now.  Two orgasms down, he can feel the warning signs.

“Try to come with me,” you order him.  “Want to feel it.”

He’s close.  He’s been close for a while, has been forestalling his own pleasure by listing out White Sox statistics in his head.  But now he wants to come with you as you’ve asked (he wants to do everything for you, anything you ask, he wants all of it, and he struggles to push the thoughts away this time).  He breathes in time with your riding, and he feels his balls tighten as his orgasm approaches.

“I’m close,” he warns.  “Fuck, sweetheart, are you close?”

“Y-y-yes.”  You close your eyes and drop your head, focusing on whatever you’re feeling.

“Gonna come with me?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  You take a sharp breath, then moan as you come a third time, and if he doesn’t quite come with you at exactly the same time, it’s close enough:  the way your pussy grasps at him, draws him in deeper is enough to push him over the edge, and he shifts his hands to your waist.  He pulls you down onto him and stills, feels the pulse of his orgasm as he spills in the condom.

It takes him a long while to recover.  He feels weightless.  Boneless.  He feels like he’s melting into the covers of your bed.  Like he could sleep for a hundred years.  Like he could give up cigarettes and Xanax if he could just stay here and fuck  you whenever his anxiety or insomnia are too much….

You dismount on shaky legs, and you disappear.  When you return, you’re in an oversized t-shirt that skims the top of your thighs, and you hand him a warm washcloth.

“You can take your time,” you tell him.  “No rush.”

Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off.  He ties it off and looks around until he sees a waste bin.  He tosses it, then flops back down on your bed.

“Just need a minute,” he says, but his voice is already thick with sleep, and he doesn’t remember anything else until morning when he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

He doesn’t remember you standing over him, bemused as you watch him snore.  He doesn’t remember you lying down beside him, covering both of you with a blanket.

And he certainly doesn’t remember reaching for you in his sleep.  He doesn’t remember how you wrap your arms around him, just like that night in the basement of The Beef, and how he sighs at the feeling of you tucked against him again.

[foodshowxyz]

Vietnamese-Style Haddock With Sticky Rice And Crunchy Salad

Ingredients

Haddock

• 4 haddock fillets

• 2 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 tbsp ginger, grated

• 2 tbsp fish sauce

• 1 tbsp soy sauce

• 1 tbsp honey

• 1 tbsp lime juice

• 1 tbsp vegetable oil

• Fresh cilantro and lime wedges for garnish

Sticky Rice

• 2 cups glutinous rice

• 2 1/2 cups water

• Pinch of salt

Crunchy Salad

• 1 cup shredded cabbage

• 1 cup shredded carrots

• 1 cup cucumber, julienned

• 1 cup bean sprouts

• 1/2 cup fresh mint leaves

• 1/2 cup fresh cilantro leaves

• 1/4 cup chopped roasted peanuts

Dressing for Salad

• 2 tbsp fish sauce

• 1 tbsp rice vinegar

• 1 tbsp lime juice

• 1 tbsp sugar

• 1 clove garlic, minced

• 1 red chili, thinly sliced (optional)

Instructions

Sticky Rice

1. Soak the Rice: Rinse the glutinous rice under cold water until the water runs clear. Soak the rice in cold water for at least 4 hours or overnight.

2. Cook the Rice: Drain the rice and place it in a steamer lined with cheesecloth or a thin towel. Steam the rice over medium heat for about 25-30 minutes, until tender. Alternatively, use a rice cooker with the same amount of water and rice.

Haddock

1. Marinate the Fish: In a bowl, combine garlic, ginger, fish sauce, soy sauce, honey, lime juice, and vegetable oil. Add haddock fillets and let marinate for at least 20 minutes.

2. Cook the Fish: Preheat a grill or a skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the haddock fillets for about 3-4 minutes on each side, until cooked through and slightly charred.

Crunchy Salad

1. Prepare the Vegetables: In a large bowl, combine shredded cabbage, carrots, cucumber, bean sprouts, mint leaves, and cilantro leaves.

2. Make the Dressing: In a small bowl, whisk together fish sauce, rice vinegar, lime juice, sugar, garlic, and red chili (if using).

3. Dress the Salad: Pour the dressing over the salad and toss to combine. Sprinkle chopped roasted peanuts on top.

Serving

1. Assemble the Dish: Place a portion of sticky rice on each plate. Top with a grilled haddock fillet.

2. Add Salad: Serve the crunchy salad on the side.

3. Garnish: Garnish with fresh cilantro and lime wedges.

[moronkombat]

Hc for Raiden with reader who’s kung Laos sister and they have a secret relationship?

Despite being Kung Lao's sister, Raiden had become romantically attracted to her until he was a young adult. He knew her when they were little but never really grew close to her

It wasn't until much later that Raiden began to feel attracted to her. It when he saw her properly dresses in something light and breezy with her hair down and flowing that he stopped dead in his tracks

Raiden's eyes lit up with her shine and his jaw dropped, he felt he gazing right at the sun and he suddenly feels very shy around her

Kung Lao is a protective older brother and constantly chases off any suitors who try to earn her fancy, however, he never did with Raiden because he never suspected Raiden to try anything

Well, unfortunately for Kung Lao, Raiden was smitten and badly at that. His eyes lingered in her direct and he felt himself warm under the collar when she spoke

He does not act on his feelings but is also very awkward at hiding them. His words stumble over each other, tumbling into a gargled mess while his cheeks flare pink

She would laugh so softly at this and Raiden would feel his entire face being embraced in flames but he didn't mind because her laugh was so pretty to listen to

Kung Lao's sister starts making an appearance in the cabbage fields more frequently, stopping by to give her brother and Raiden water but it soon becomes an excuse to see Raiden more without drawing suspicions from her protective brother

It's not that Kung Lao doesn't want his sister to find love, he is just hellbent on being the one to approve of them and he doesn't approve of anyone that tries to seduce his sister. He often beats them blue and purple to get them to stay away

She doesn't want conflict between Raiden and her brother so she decides to keep her interests in Raiden away from her fierce older

It is she who makes the first move. Raiden was walking her home one night and as he walked her to the door she turned to kiss him, leaving Raiden shocked and blushing

She tells him that he's a good kisser even though he was too stunned to reciprocate her gesture and Raiden just about trips over his words when responding

The interaction is cut short when Kung Lao opens the door and his sister plays it off well with Raiden standing there awestruck and babbling. Kung Lao teases him about having a fever and behind his back she would wink at Raiden knowingly

A secret affair starts after that with Raiden having to hide his feelings and relationship when around Kung Lao who remains completely unaware that his best friend and sister are a couple

There isn't much time for dates, not with so many prying eyes so most of the time spent together is after dark when everyone is asleep. It started with her sneaking out and showing up outside Raiden's window and now it is a nightly event

Raiden and her spend the entire night together, talking dancing and just enjoying each other. It is a very sweet and tender romance between the two of them and they love every single minute of it

Yes, they do not wish to constantly sneak around but they also don't want Kung Lao keeping them apart so they continue to have their moments within the shadows of night

In the day there are many stolen glances and "accidental" ghostly caresses while they long to see each other under a veil of stars. Will they be found out? Will Kung Lao discover his best friend is dating his sister? Only time will tell...

[tribbetherium]

The Late Rodentocene: 20 million years post-establishment

Browsers' Inside Story: Hamtelopes of the Late Rodentocene

The Late Rodentocene is a time of diversity and of plenty. Warm, humid, and temperate climes fuel the growth of productive biomes all across the equator, with the landmasses, slowly being shaped by time across deep time, gradually becoming blanketed by the spread of grasslands and scrubland. Grasses, descended from tussock grass, had evolved seeds that float like dandelions, with miniscule filamentous parachutes, enabling them to spread far and wide and cover any available area of barren land, quickly becoming its first colonists. From there, a wide variety of "shrubs" soon follow, descendants of brassica cabbages, clovers, and even dwarfed stonefruit trees that bear cherry-like berries relished by a wide array of species.

Across this rich and abundant land, a new clade of grazers is rising to prominence: large, hopping jerryboas, bipedal jumpers able to easily cover large ground with their powerful and energy-efficient spring-like bounding bipedal locomotion. But, secondary to their abundance and dominance, is another clade of herbivores also spreading out across the land and eking out an existence in the shadow of a more successful group: the hamtelopes.

Descendants of the gouties of the Early Rodentocene along with the cavybaras, the first, early forms of hamtelope would find themselves quickly pushed to the margins by jerryboa domination of the open grasslands, savannahs, and prairies, where a saltatorial means of movement proved more energy-efficient at traversing wide, open land. But, rather than this be a catastrophe that spells the end of this lineage, they quickly adjusted, primarily becoming browsers feeding upon shrubs, bushes and low-branched trees, while the jerryboas focused more on grasses.

Many hamtelopes would remain quite small, such as the dusty hoofhare (Lagungulomys cricetolepus), basal grazers scarcely larger than their goutie ancestors, and living out in the open plains where they fed on clover and softer vegetation that grew amidst the grazing of the jerryboas. However, as with the trend in the Late Rodentocene, many hamtelopes have gradually been increasing in size in the absence of occupied megafaunal niches, like the scrubland hamtelope (Cervolagocricetus punctus), which too inhabits open plains dominated by low-growing plants and shrubbery, specializing on being browsers rather than grazers, and thus partitioning niches with the grazing jerryboas and allowing the two clades to coexist.

Some, however, have taken advantage of areas less conducive to the jerryboas, who are adapted to quickly moving across flat plains with little effort, but are less suited for rougher terrain. The alpine montelope (Eocapricricetus altus) is one such species, inhabiting steep cliffs of mountainous regions and precariously clambering up rock edges in order to feed on alpine vegetation, some growing straight out of cliff faces. Another is the forest deerat (Eoaltocricetus myocervus) which lives in dense, forested areas, where it thrives off a diet of fruit, bark, shrubs and especially the low branches of trees, standing on its rear legs to access the tender shoots, an abundant food rarely contested and out of reach of many browsers.

While for now, the hamtelopes boast moderate success, a few begin to hint at a greater future, with special adaptations now that, in many million years time, will give them an advantage that would allow them to take over in a changed world. The big-toed spurfoot (Centrungulopus mesonychus) is one such species bearing a unique feature. While most hamtelopes walk upon two central toes while another pair serve as dewclaws, the spurfoot rests its weight upon just one toe each, leaving the other hoof a pointed, claw-like spur that it uses for digging, defense and grooming.

As of the moment, the spurfoot's distinctive features seem trivial. Yet this would come to define its descendants once a herd of spurfoots manage to migrate to the isolated continent of Borealia in the Late Rodentocene during a period of low sea levels and minor glaciation lasting a few thousand years, that enabled them to cross over to the continent and become quite established. Their heavy grazing on the local grasses, which they fed on in the absence of jerryboas on Borealia, would cause said grasses to develop harsh defenses that made it lethal to consume to the unprepared. Thus, on Borealia, an arms race between plant and herbivore would bring about the evolution of the saberleaf grass and the ungulopes: two major players with a bigger role to perform in the distant future as the continents merge, break and reconfigure, mixing up the dynamics of species that evolved in isolation.

The ungulopes would not be the only clade to rise from these basal forms. Also in an arms race with both local flora and jerryboa competition, the deerats would also bring about, over several million years, taller and taller individuals better able to browse from leaves in trees, reaching in a relatively short time of 5-10 million years incredible proportions that would give it access to leaves out of reach of any other herbivore. With its niche unchallenged, these giant hamtelopes would in time return to the plains uncontested by the jerryboas, and come to become the tallest of all terrestrial animals, giving rise to the girats, the dominant high-browsers throughout the Therocene and the Glaciocene.

But, for most of the Late Rodentocene and the Therocene, the majority of hamtelopes would remain small, inconspicuous, and far more abundant in small-herbivore niches to the hoofhares and the montelopes. Spreading across the main continents, they would live side by side with the leaping megafaunal jerryboas known as the boingos, but would be notably less abundant in the southern continent of Easaterra as the landmass fragmented before they could reach the region, only arriving much later as tall browsers. The relative lack of small grazer and browser forms is reflected by the local success of the oingos across Easaterra in the Therocene, smaller jerryboas that in time give rise to the walkabies and rhinocheirids.

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

[metamorphesque]

Not the anon who asked about the typical lunch but it's very interesting! I live in an area in America that has the largest population of Armenians outside of Armenia so now I'm A) hungry and B) looking forward to trying some things!

Well, my friend, in that case, let me recommend a couple of gems:

I’m sure you’ve already heard of Armenian barbecue (khorovats) and kebab. However, I’m still going to mention them because, vegetarian or not, I’m Armenian hehe.

Dolma – Meat, spices and other ingredients rolled into cabbage or grape leaves. Do yourself a favor and dip this in matsun (sour yogurt) with garlic. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told I make some good dolma.

Pasuc dolma – The vegetable-filled version of traditional meat-filled rolls. Since its recipe is entirely plant-based, it’s a very convenient dish to serve during the fasting period. It is made of 7 different boiled grains, such as beans, lentils, chickpeas, cracked wheat, rice and maize peas (though the recipe can vary). All of the grains mentioned above are then wrapped in pickled cabbage or grape leaves. Pasuc tolma can be served hot or cold. My grandma used to make the best pasuc dolma.

Harissa – A “porridge” made from ground wheat and pulled meat (it can be chicken, lamb, etc.), usually served with butter. It’s especially good in cold weather and pairs well with vodka.

Khash – Now, khash is not your ordinary soup – it’s a whole tradition and a half. Even the toasts are well-defined and announced in a specific order. It even has its own season. Khash season in Armenia begins in late autumn, during the first cold days, and continues until the beginning of spring. The process of preparing khash is quite long and tiring, but the result is worth it. It’s made by boiling bovine shanks for hours until the tendons fall off the bones and the broth becomes thick. Sometimes, cooked stomach pieces are added. No salt is used during cooking, but it is seasoned with salt and crushed garlic once served. Cold vodka, mineral water, radish, pickles, peppers and dry lavash are all served alongside khash. Crushed garlic, greens, cheese, and, of course, salt must also be on the table.

Khashlama – Usually made with lamb and vegetables, the meat is so tender it falls off the bone.

Ghapama – A dish so mouthwatering that there’s a song dedicated to it. Ghapama is prepared by removing the insides of a pumpkin. The top of the pumpkin is cut off, and the ingredients (boiled rice, nuts, and dried fruits) are added inside. The pumpkin is closed on top with the cut lid, wrapped in foil and placed in the oven. Cooking times vary, usually taking from 40 minutes to 1.5 hours. The pumpkin is baked until soft, then served. Before serving, the pumpkin is cut from top to bottom into slices.

Jengyalov hats (Armenian bread with jengyal – greens) - a flatbread filled with about 25 types of greens. The recipe and the variety of greens used differ depending on the region.

բարի ախորժակ!

[themousefromfantasyland]

Bluebeard

by Bruno de La Salle

If you love fairy tales, you need a French friend. I read this version of Bluebeard when I was a child. It stuck with me, because in this version, there’s a dark, melancholic, and dream-like romance between the protagonist and the titular Bluebeard, here reimagined as a prince cursed into being a giant.

But I could never find this book again.

My good friend @adarkrainbow helped me find it and I will forever be thankful to him.

@ariel-seagull-wings , this is the Bluebeard I talked about. A Bluebeard tale that is also a mix between Beauty and the Beast and Prince Lindworm.

"Curse, curses, Spells, imprecations: Words of blood, words of lead."

There had been a curse and no one knew why, for whom or in what way. But what remained certain was that misfortune was there. There was, in this kingdom where neither king nor laws existed, a poor old man who had just lost his wife. And this poor man had lost, with his wife, his courage, his good humor and the last grain of brain that remained to him.

He had had three beautiful sons, they had been away at war for six years and would not return at the earliest after seven.

He had only his daughters left: four girls to marry, but who were not yet married and who every day asked what there would be to eat, knowing that there would be nothing.

He spent his days looking for what he could bring them back and did not find much.

One day, a winter day without bread, he suddenly saw in front of him a field covered with blue cabbages. Those cabbages that are put in soup and that are tender and crunchy. They seemed so numerous to him that it was like an ocean. But what surprised him most was that he had never seen such a field, in that place, before.

Without trying to find out more, he threw himself at this godsend. He wanted to pull out these cabbages to take them away as quickly as possible.

He could not pull out a single one. These cabbages were as if attached to the earth of this strange field. As if connected by threads. The poor man was overcome by a desperate anger. He began to hit the cabbages, kicking and punching.

He heard a rumbling, and suddenly saw a rock rise up above him and the field, an enormous stone. It was neither field nor stone! It was the head of a giant and the field was his chest on which his blue beard feel like cabbages.

The poor man wanted to run away but the giant had seized him with two of his enormous fingers. He brought him close to his face and asked him gently: What was he doing in that beard? Why had he disturbed him?

The poor man told everything: his misfortune, his misery, his four daughters to marry, feed and clothe.

“Give me one and you will never be hungry again. Otherwise, since you are disturbing me, I will crush you like a fly!”

The man did not hesitate much. Fear, misery, stupidity, the urgency of his decision did not help him to think. He accepted.

When the appointment was made, he quickly returned home, reassured and almost happy to have gotten rid of the danger, and also of his eldest daughter.

Without being heard by the others, he came to tell his daughter that a prince was in love with her, that she had to go see him near his castle as soon as possible, to come to an understanding and to marry him.

The girl did not argue. The opportunity was too good to miss, to leave such a poor father to find a powerful husband. She urged him to leave.

On their way, crossing a river, they came across washerwomen who were washing fine shirts that they were putting in baskets. The oldest of the washerwomen spoke to the girl:

“Help me carry this linen!”

The other did not look at her. She was not going to compromise such an attractive marriage to help such poor people!

When they arrived at the field, they found a drawbridge, in front of the bridge, a purse full of money and behind it, a large door that opened a crack.

The poor man pushed his daughter inside despite the terror she had, he pushed it and the door closed.

He waited but he did not hear a noise. That seemed enough to him to think that everything was fine. He took the purse and then returned home, very pleased with his good deal.

So his elder daughter disappeared and no one knew how, except him and the giant. He did not try to find out what had become of her. He worried about it the day he found his purse empty.

So he returned to the field. His blue beard waved under the winter sky. Very, very respectfully, he pulled on one of the curls that was shaped like a cabbage.

And, like the first time, the blue giant straightened up. The old man was terrified. He hesitated to ask for news of his elder daughter but what he wanted most was to ask for money.

He did not need to do so. It was the giant who asked:

“Give me your second daughter if you want to earn money and if you want to save your life!”

The old man asked for nothing else. He did not ask any questions. He did what he had done again.

And like her elder sister, the second was too happy to believe she had escaped misfortune.

She left with her father, did not listen to the washerwoman, ducked behind the door and was the father able to take the salary from this affair.

Ill-gotten money evaporates without one knowing how to do without it.

A third time, the father headed for the blue field. And as the previous times, things went well.

It was the last one's turn. The youngest, the innocent one, the one who wanted to stay home to watch over her father who was left alone since the others had left.

Everything had to be explained to her: the story of the older sisters and the giant, the choice he had left her: a daughter or to be killed.

She agreed to give herself up, but took a raven and a dove on her shoulder to send news: white and joyful news, black and dangerous news.

They met the washerwomen on the way.

The oldest asked her to help her carry the laundry. She came to help her immediately.

Then the old woman gave her three small colored handkerchiefs, the first white, the second red, the other blue:

-Take them for your wedding day, they are a shirt, a dress and a coat. And you will not take them off until your husband also takes off similar clothes.

The washerwoman returned to her shirts at the washhouse and the girl to her way.

They came to the gate. The father took his money. And the girl and her two birds went into the castle.

She enters the castle, the brave young girl and she is all amazed.

It is a magnificent palace, all lit up, all illuminated and so well made, so well arranged that it is as if she had always lived in this palace.

She crosses the lounges, the rooms, the apartments. She sees there, she recognizes there what she had guessed to see there, except that everything is blue.

The young girl arrives at the dining room, where the meal is prepared with everything she prefers.

The giant is there, suddenly, and invites her. They then sit down at the table. It is like her father told her during their journey: his skin, his beard, his hair are blue, pale blue like anger, like winter cabbages.

And yet, he seems less big, less big than a large stone and a field. But a terrible sadness can be read on his face, a heavy blue sadness.

When they have finished eating, he takes her to his room then withdraws without saying anything.

The next day, at dawn, he stands ready to lead her, to show her what he has.

He says:

“Everything belongs to you. Take whatever you want.”

But she looks and is silent, admires but does not dare say anything and it is he who must guess what she would like to ask.

The days pass thus, discovering themselves to each other, being silent and listening to each other, revealing themselves without saying anything.

She was no longer afraid of him, nor of his astonishing appearance. But as for him, the more time went by, the more he seemed worried. It was as if he had feared that a noise or a movement might shatter a hope she was unaware of.

She had asked him for news of her three sisters.

He had not invented any, he had said: They died because of their imprudence!

He had said nothing more.

In the evening, when they separated, all the lamps went out. And he had forbidden her to light a single candle before dawn the next day.

He joined her in the night and left her before daybreak. And if she had not known who he was and what he had probably done, she would have loved him very much.

Almost a year had passed. One morning, he came to find her, more serious and sadder than ever:

“I am going to go on a journey and you are going to be left alone. I leave you all my keys, the hundred keys to the house. Everything in it is for you. Go wherever you wish. Except to the lower room where I keep what belongs to me. I beg you not to go there, otherwise I am not responsible for anything.”

He tells her all this in a whisper and he leaves and she finds herself alone.

She does not hesitate for long. She knows that she must discover what this house hides.

She runs to the lower room and with the small key opens the unfortunate door.

A suffocating stench immediately takes hold of her by the throat.

She advances inside. She perceives, in the silence, the dull noise, the slow and brief noise of heavy drops that crash.

There is, in this darkness, a glowing light that escapes from a smoking fire. And this threatening glow reveals the brownish shadows that are suspended from the ceiling.

After a moment, she understands the giant's horrible secret: these shadows, these noises, this smell, are the blood, the flesh, the limbs and the remains of the wives who preceded her in this place and those of her elder sisters who were murdered and cut up.

She guesses almost everything that had happened: they had come here driven by curiosity. They had been betrayed by a secret, a magic. The giant thus warned had killed them immediately.

They had dropped this key which was magic. And this key had spoken to warn the murderer.

The young girl this time does not drop the key.

Among all the butchery, she recognizes her three sisters, their heads, their trunks, their limbs.

With tenderness, she gathers the pieces. And their bodies are reconstituted. And as if by magic breathe, but nevertheless remain asleep.

While she is at her work,She suddenly notices another door in the room. A very small door.

Curiosity takes hold of her. She wants to know what is behind this little door. She opens it and discovers a staircase. She goes down.

She arrives in a cave. A gigantic cavern, as big as the whole world, with a vault as vast as a starry night sky.

And under this sky unfolds a marvelous landscape, made of hills, rivers, mountains, fields and rocks.

But when the moon appears and illuminates the cavern, she understands what she sees: it was not a landscape, but the sleeping body of a man.

And under the moonlight, she recognizes the giant who sleeps almost peacefully.

In the middle of his chest, as vast as a valley, flows a white river.

And on the edges, washerwomen wash soiled linen, shirts stained with blood.

And each time a shirt is cleaned, the giant sighs and sobs.

And his complaints are so touching that the young girl forgets to hold the key, and lets it go.

As soon as it is no longer held, as soon as it is abandoned, the key swells, twists and screams, it screams and it warns:

“This woman has disobeyed! This woman has disobeyed!”

Then the washerwomen flee, the river stops flowing and the valley, on the giant's chest becomes a gaping wound again.

Then the giant wakes up, resumes his tormented form. His beard and his skin become pale blue like anger, like cabbages in winter.

He addresses the young girl:

“You did not know how to keep the key. This cursed fairy key that watches over me to keep me cursed. Because of you, I become again the one who only does evil, the one who separates and who kills, the one who cannot stop himself from killing so great is his fear and who will kill you too.”

He immediately seizes his ax and begins to sharpen it, while grinding between his teeth which excite his grindstone:

“Guise, guise, my grindstone! Guise my beautiful gray blade! Crips, criss for the betrothed! Guise, guise, I caught her disobeying me! Guise my beautiful gray blade! I'm going to cut her throat!”

She says to him:

“Listen to me! Since you are going to kill me, grant me a favor! I would like to become your wife before I die. I would like you to marry me before you kill me. And I want, for that moment, my bridal finery. Let me go and get dressed.”

The giant does not answer her, but while sharpening his ax, he signals her to go.

She runs out of the cave. Quickly climbs the stairs. Finds her sisters awake. Quickly tells them what to do:

Climb to the top of the tower. Open the raven's cage, so that it can fly away and warn their brothers who have returned from war. Watch, watch and watch, then warn when they arrive.

The three sisters climb the tower and make the raven fly away. The young girl is in her room. She unfolds the three handkerchiefs that the washerwoman had given her.

Then she undresses and takes the first white handkerchief. She puts it on her chest. It makes a shirt for her.

But down below the monster is busy:

“Guise, guise, my millstone! Guise my beautiful gray blade! Squeal, squeal for the betrothed! Guise, guise, I caught her disobeying me! Guise my beautiful gray blade! I'm going to cut her throat!”

And suddenly he gets impatient: “Is your finery on?”

And the young girl answers: “I can't find my chemise.”

Then she addresses her sisters:

“Don't you see anything coming?

And the three sisters answer her:

“We only see the paleness of the dawn that is about to arrive and nothing, and nothing on the way.”

But she, she looks for the handkerchief, the second little red handkerchief. She unfolds it on her body and it makes her a robe. And the giant shouts again:

“Guise, guise, my millstone! Guise my beautiful gray blade! Squeal, squeal for the betrothed! Guise, guise, I caught her disobeying me! Guise my beautiful gray blade! I'm going to cut her throat!”

And shouts even louder: “Is this chemise on?”

She answers: “It is on, but now I'm looking for my robe!”

Then she addresses her sisters:

“Don't you see anything coming?”

And the three sisters answered him:

“We see the sun coming, lighting up the horizon, but nothing, nothing on the path.”

She took the last handkerchief, the blue handkerchief, and placed it on her shoulders, and it made her a coat. A blue coat like the giant's beard.

The monster howled like a madman:

“Guise, guise, my millstone! Guise my beautiful gray blade! Squeal, squeal for the betrothed! Guise, guise, I caught her disobeying me! Guise my beautiful gray blade! I'm going to cut her throat! Is this dress finally on?”

“It's on properly. I can't find the coat!”

Then she addressed her sisters: “Don't you see anything coming?”

And the three sisters answered her:

“We only see the morning and the sad day that is coming. And then also three horsemen in the distance!”

But it is probably too late, because here is the giant coming up to look for her.

So she must resolve to go down to find him.

And he, when he sees her coming, dressed in her three handkerchiefs, he remains completely bewildered, so perfect is this finery.

He orders:

“Take off this coat!”

And she, without knowing why, answers:

“Take off a coat like this!!”

These words make him angry, even more than he was there, but he cannot refuse her what she has just asked.

With both hands, he takes his blue beard, pale blue like anger, like winter cabbages. He tears it off his face.

And all his giant skin, which was blue like his beard, he tears off his whole body. Then, she takes off his coat.

But under this skin of anger, which the giant had just lost, appears a red crust like the dried earth.

He asks:

“Take off your dress!”

She answers:

“Take off a dress like this!”

He tears off the two lips of his wound from his chest. And all the crust of earth that had covered him until then cracks and crumbles into dust. Then, she takes off her dress.

But under the layer of earth, which the giant had just lost, appears a skin of stone, like a white and pointed rock, a yoke of sharp stones.

He asks her in a breath:

“Take off your shirt now.”

She answers:

“Take off a shirt like this!”

The giant begins to tremble, to tremble from head to toe. Trembling so much that he makes the castle tremble. And suddenly, the rock breaks, the stones split, finally break.

Then the man emerges from his shell, old and young at the same time, full of strength, but exhausted, like a newborn in the hands of the one who gives birth to him. And she took off her shirt.

The three brothers had arrived. They had blown up the door and were running to the cavern. The three sisters accompanied them.

They arrived too late. The young girl had defeated the curse. She had freed the prince.

There was only a queen and a king left, happy to be free.

There were only sweet, tender and affectionate words.

Nothing more of the sinister past.

Nothing more of what had been feared, nothing more of what had been believed.

"Curse, curses, Spells, imprecations: Words of blood, words of lead."

It was all gone, like a dream.

Again, thanks for helping me find this gem again

@ariel-seagull-wings @the-blue-fairie @thealmightyemprex @tamisdava2 @princesssarisa @adarkrainbow @piterelizabethdevries @natache @theancientvaleofsoulmaking

[petermorwood]

Mushrooms in Cream Sauce...

...or Pilze in Sahnesoße.

This is for @killerblackberrypie, who went looking for the version on our "European Cusines" site and found the site gone.

@dduane had taken it down for maintenance, a new theme and to take some new photos, but while the site was down it web-provider went belly-up. These things happen.

"European Cuisines" Will Return - just not quite yet.

Our recipe was, ironically, one of the recipes slated for new pics, so while this text is from the site's offline backup (with a couple of tweaks from me, because why not?) photos are sourced from the web.

There are many, many other recipes online; they're mostly in German, but Google Translate handles Rezeptedeutch well enough. I've linked to a couple, which is only fair since I'm using their pix.

You'll also see the French word "champignons" in German recipes as often as German "Pilze"; I don't know whether this indicates a French origin for the recipe, or refers to a specific mushroom, or makes the dish sound more classy.

Here's one: Champignons in Sahnesauce mit Spätzle.

And here's ours...

*****

Pilze in Sahnesoße from European Cuisines.

Contrary to popular belief, Germany is not a vegetable-free zone.

In fact, unless you find yourself buried in some tiny backwater in the Black Forest or someplace similar, Germany is much kinder to both vegetable-lover and vegetarian than a lot of other places. It will be rare to find a menu that doesn't have at least a few vegetarian or at least mostly-vegetable options on it, often far more creative than you might expect.

But leaving aside for the moment the issue of vegetarianism per se, Germans really do like more vegetables than potatoes and cabbage, especially seasonal ones in their prime. Asparagus season, for instance, has its own name: Spargelzeit - "asparagus time".

And mushrooms (all right, not as true veggies, but at least as fungi) turn up as stars in many entreés, especially in dishes meant to be served in the autumn, "Pilzsaison", mushroom season, when the good little creatures are coming up all over in the woods and the supermarkets.

This recipe calls for the mushrooms to be sautéed with onions in bacon fat (the bacon is added later). The pan is then deglazed with white wine, and various spices are added, one of them being paprika, which instantly suggests that this recipe probably sneaked over the border from Austro-Hungary, possibly via the Czech Republic.

Finally the cream and bacon go in.

The result is substantial, surprisingly elegant, and yummy.

This is definitely a recipe for a high-end Hobbit menu: an entrée for anyone who doesn't want their mushrooms upstaged by overly large amounts of meat.

The bacon-fat and bacon CAN be left out completely, making the dish meat-free. Use more butter along with more mushrooms and a red pepper diced small, and add 1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika.

*****

INGREDIENTS

NB, we work in metric so that's "correct"; Imperial is converted and "approximate", though it won't make much difference. Just don't combine them or your mushrooms might crash into Mars...

1 kg / 2 lb fresh mushrooms, domesticated or a mixture of wild types to taste

125g / 1/4 pound bacon, diced

60gr 1/4 cup butter or margarine

2 large onions, diced

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

1/2 teaspoon paprika

60ml / 1/4 cup (or more if needed to deglaze) white wine, preferably a medium or medium-dry one

A pinch of nutmeg

A pinch of mace

250ml / 1 cup heavy cream

The juice of half a medium-sized lemon, strained

2 sprigs of fresh parsley

METHOD

Clean the mushrooms with a soft brush or dry cloth. (Never wash mushrooms.) If they're big, cut them in half.

Fry the bacon in a wok or large pan until lightly browned. Remove the bacon from the pan and set it aside.

Add the butter to the pan drippings. Add the onions; sauté until lightly browned.

Add the mushrooms; cook them until they're tender, stirring often.

When they're tender, raise the heat slightly and stir in the wine, salt, pepper, paprika, nutmeg, and mace. Cover the pan and cook over low heat for 15 minutes.

Remove from the heat. Add the cooked bacon, cream and lemon juice. Reheat until just warm. Do NOT let this mixture boil!!!

Garnish with parsley and serve with noodles, dumplings, mashed potatoes, whole potatoes... And some crusty bread to chase the last of the sauce.

*****

Our original photo used Spätzle, as in the first pic. Ribbon tagliatelle works just fine as well, while here is Saure Pilz-Sahnesoße served alongside Bohemian Dumplings, a long bread dumpling boiled in water or stock then cut into thick slices.

From the same site, here's a simple potato treatment, Pilz-Sahnesoße mit Kartoffeln:

As far as we've been able to make out, the main difference between mushrooms in cream sauce as a main dish, and creamy mushroom sauce for use with something else, is the proportion of mushrooms to everything else, and often the size of pieces into which they're cut. Really small bits are one more ingredient, large generous chunks are much more front and centre.

Ours is definitely a main course, and though we haven't made it for a while, the memory of that last time still makes my Mind Palate go...

Soon. Soon...

[shoku-and-awe]

Maybe it's weird, but I have accepted that at least once a year, usually in the winter, I will make a meal that is entirely white or beige or brown. This time, it was creamy mac & cheese, life-changing roasted cauliflower with garlic everything bagel seasoning, and miso soup with daikon, cabbage, and leeks. So delicious! So monochrome. Recipes (such as they are) behind the cut.

Cauliflower: Pre-heat the oven to 250C and chop the cauliflower into large pieces. Dress with plenty of olive oil, salt, and pepper, transfer to a dish, and roast covered in foil for 5~10 minutes. Reduce the temperature to 210, remove the foil, and cook another 5~10 minutes. (Or, if you don't have a Japanese oven that drops the temp to 210 automatically "for your safety" (😑), enjoy your freedom.) Turn off the heat and sprinkle with everything bagel seasoning (mine has poppy seeds and roast garlic chips). Toss to mix. Let sit I. The oven until ready to serve. Lose your mind eating--this is SO good.

*If you’re making everything, while the oven is preheating, boil the water for the pasta and the soup.

Soup: Boil water and add dashi powder. Peel daikon and slice into half moons. Chop cabbage into chunks, separating the ribs and the leaves. Chop leek into thick diagonal slices. Add daikon, cabbage ribs, and leek to the boiling water. Once tender, add the cabbage leaves. If making ahead, turn off the heat when the cabbage leaves are tender. Dissolve miso paste into the liquid when ready to serve.

Mac & cheese: Boil water for pasta. When the pasta is 5 minutes from done, in a separate pan, make a light roux. When the texture is right, add a splash of milk and mix thoroughly. Add more milk until you have enough liquid to create a sauce for the pasta. Season to taste with salt, pepper, powdered mustard, a dash of nutmeg, cheesy seasoning if you have it, and chili pepper (I used smoked ghost pepper). Add shredded cheese gradually and mix until desired texture/taste is reached. Drain and add pasta, stir to coat.

[gothhabiba]

obviously you can’t cook don’t know what a blog is etc etc. but in a universe where you did would you know of any recipes your alternate self posted which used leftovers or scraps? or alternatively making really good stock? many thanks

hm. if I ever cooked I think I would say something like—take

the peels, ends, and greens (if you haven't used them for anything else) of carrots

the ends, leaves, and outer stringy bits (if you're one of those people who peel them) of celery

tomato skins

mushroom stems

peels and trimmings of onions

peels and ends of garlic

skins and trimmings of ginger

the whites of green onions

stems of fresh, tender herbs (parsley and cilantro)

stems of woody herbs (thyme, rosemary), in moderation

trimmings from leeks, turnips, and fennel, in moderation

And simmer in enough water to cover for about an hour, with herbs or whole spices if you'd like (I generally include bay leaves, black or white peppercorns, cumin seeds, and coriander seeds), then strain. You can keep scraps from preparing meals over the course of a few days or weeks and freeze them in a bag or other container until ready to make stock; make sure each bag has a good proportion of different vegetables. Frozen scraps will only take 15-20 minutes of simmering to make stock.

Make sure that you scrub any vegetables whose peels you will be using for stock thoroughly. Scraps can be used for stock if they are wilted, but not if they are rotten.

Various places online will give you different ideas of what to include in stock and what not to bother including (there's a pretty comprehensive list here); as you do this over time you will no doubt have your own opinions about inclusions and ratios. Do not include cruciferous vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower) as they will make the stock unpalatably bitter. You may chuse to divide scraps in terms of what meal you plan to make with the stock (e.g. leave ginger, lemongrass, galangal peels &c. for an east Asian meal rather than, like, an Italian one).

Other things that can be done with "scraps":

The whites of green onions can be simmered alongside kombu/dashima when making Japanese dashi or Korean yuksu. Also reconstitute dried shiitake mushrooms in this stock to get flavourful mushroom water in the stock + reconstituted mushrooms that you can slice, boil, fry, &c.

The whites of green onions can also be used to make shiraga negi, a Japanese garnish

Thai recipes often involve leaving the peels on garlic when chopping or pulverising it. I'm not sure how the skins on Thai garlic compare to other varieties so your mileage may vary.

Garlic and onion peels can be dried in a dehydrator or an oven on low (~200F) and then ground to add savor to bread, soups, rice &c. Basically use it like garlic powder

Cauliflower and broccoli stalks can be peeled, sliced and roasted (along with the leaves) at around 400F (200C) for 20 minutes or so until browned and crispy with olive oil, salt, and spices of your chusing, then dipped in ranch or garlic sauce (for a quick vegan ranch I mix vegan mayonnaise + grated garlic + a squeeze of lemon + pinch of salt).

Kale stems can be pickled, or sliced thin, sauteed, and added to stir-fries and soups.

The inner core of cabbages (which some recipes call for you to remove) can also be minced and added to soups.

Orange, lemon, and grapefruit peels can be used to make mixed peel; apple peels and cores can be used to make apple jelly. These recipes aren't really something-for-nothing, though, as they do use a lot of sugar.

Also orange peel tea. Sometimes when making mixed peel I drain the water after five minutes of simmering and drink it as tea, then replace the water and continue simmering as the recipe calls for.

Some Medditerranean cake recipes involve (perhaps soaking and then) blending an entire orange, peel and all--look up "whole orange cake."

When not making mixed peel, I (remove the pith from and then) dry orange and lemon peels to grind into zest and store it to use as needed. A friend of mine saves the pith, too, and dries and grinds it and uses it to replace some of the flour when baking.

South Indian & Latin American recipes sometimes feature the peels of bananas or plantains—look for banana peel curry/thoran.

Various recipes can be found for banana peel pulled pork and banana peel bacon; banana peel cake; banana peel tea.

Starch left from rinsing rice can be used to thicken soups and stews (this is common in Korean recipes).

The water left from cooking dried beans can be used in soups and stews, or in cooking future batches of beans.

Make sure that anything you're eating or boiling has been washed well.

I— I'm. uh. huh. that was weird, I don't know what came over me...

[hepatosaurus]

national poetry month, day 16

Oh you most beautiful inside of a vegetable! I want to rid myself of these tender thoughts: the red cabbage I sliced through, the inside half shining like an Italian bathroom; the baroque feeling of a recent pineapple after I chopped off its crown and, for a moment, wore it as a hat. How can I live my life when even a radish transforms into a trinket grief? It is impractical to attach oneself to anything edible. Now I find myself separating the leaves of a blowsy English lettuce, leaves I want to press to my cheek like a cool flannel on a childhood fever. —Amy Key

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Five gyoza, each with ten small inward-facing pleats, sit on a plate garnished with green onion. One of the gyoza is upside-down to show a golden brown bottom. A bowl of dark brown dipping sauce is visible in the background. End ID.]

Tofu and vegetable gyoza / 豆腐餃子

Japanese gyoza are similar to Chinese potstickers, but they are usually smaller, with a thinner wrapper. These gyoza consist of a tender wrapper and a juicy, umami vegetable and tofu filling, pan-fried and steamed to produce a crisp bottom and served with a tangy, slightly spicy dipping sauce. I like to make a big batch of these and freeze some to add to a quick meal throughout the next few weeks.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Tip jar

Makes about 45.

INGREDIENTS:

For the wrappers:

2 cups (240g) all-purpose flour

½ tsp salt

3 tbsp vegetable oil

About ½ cup (120mL) water

For the filling:

3/4 cup (75g) green cabbage, minced

1 medium carrot (50g), minced

1 small stalk celery (30g), minced

5 shiitake mushrooms, minced

2 stalks green onion, thinly sliced

7oz (1/2 package) firm or extra firm tofu

1 clove garlic, minced or grated

1/2-inch chunk (5g) ginger, minced or grated

2 Tbsp cornstarch

2 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp red miso paste

2 tsp toasted sesame oil

1 tsp salt

1/4 tsp white peppercorns, toasted and ground

Also try other vegetables and herbs such as daikon (Japanese radish), chives, &c.

For the dipping sauce:

1 Tbsp rice vinegar

1 Tbsp soy sauce

1 tsp sesame oil

1/4 tsp chili oil (optional)

INSTRUCTIONS:

For the wrappers:

1. If measuring by volume, measure flour by spooning into a dry cup measure and levelling off. Combine flour and salt in a large bowl. Add vegetable oil and stir.

2. Add water slowly until a soft, non-sticky dough forms. You may need more or less than 1/2 cup. Add more water, 1 Tbsp at a time, if dry flour remains in the bottom of the bowl. Cover and allow to rest for 10 minutes.

3. Knead dough on a lightly floured surface for about 10 minutes until very smooth. Cover with a damp kitchen towel and allow to rest for half an hour to make rolling out easier.

4. Divide dough in half, leaving the half you're not using covered (this makes it easier to achieve a thinner wrapper). Roll out each dough half on a lightly floured surface into a large rectangle of about 1.5mm thickness. Allow to rest, covered with a kitchen towel, for another 30 minutes.

5. Use a 3" (7 1/2 cm) cookie cutter or cup to cut out circular gyoza wrappers. Lightly dust each wrapper with cornstarch and set them aside on a covered plate. Allow scraps to rest in plastic or under a damp kitchen towel before rolling them out again.

For the filling:

1. Drain tofu. Press by wrapping in a clean kitchen towel and placing on a clean surface or cutting board, then placing a plate or other flat surface over the tofu and weighing it down with a heavy object. Press for about an hour to remove excess water.

2. Meanwhile, shred cabbage by slicing in half lengthwise (through the root) and cutting out the stem, then placing cut-side down and slicing thinly lengthwise to achieve thin strips. Finally, cut strips into a fine mince.

3. Peel carrot and mince; mince celery and mushrooms. Alternately, prepare all vegetables in a food processor.

4. Cover vegetables with about 1/2 inch table salt and allow to sit for 5-10 minutes to release moisture. Rinse briefly to remove excess salt and then squeeze firmly over a colander to get rid of moisture. A too-wet filling means a decrease in flavor and a higher likelihood of soggy gyoza!

5. Dice tofu. Mix tofu with mushrooms, cabbage, carrot, celery, green onions, garlic, and ginger in a large bowl.

6. Whisk soy sauce, miso paste, sesame oil, salt, white pepper, and cornstarch in a small bowl until well combined. Add to vegetable mixture and stir to combine.

To assemble:

Assembling gyoza the way shown in the recipe photo takes a little bit of practice. You want to make 10-12 tiny, even folds along one edge of the gyoza--these can be facing the same direction for the length of the gyoza, or they can all face outwards from the center. These tiny folds help the dipping sauce to cling onto the gyoza (as well as looking quite nice), but if you don't want to do something so involved, you can simply fold the wrappers in half around the filling and press to seal, then fry the gyoza lying on one side. They'll still turn out delicious!

1. Take one wrapper in the palm of your non-dominant hand and place a spoonful of filling in the center. (Use less filling to give yourself more wrapper to work with if you're not experienced with shaping dumplings.) Use a finger dipped in some water to wet the edges of the wrapper--this will help to seal it closed around the filling.

2. With your non-dominant hand, hold the gyoza so that it's roughly folded in half. To make gyoza with folds all facing the same direction: Using your dominant hand, pinch just the half of the dough closest to you into a small fold, then press it down against the half of wrapper furthest from you to seal. Continue making small folds in this manner, each one slightly overlapping the last, until the gyoza is completely sealed.

I like to make gyoza with folds facing outward from the center; to do this, first pinch the gyoza to seal it at the halfway point widthwise, then make folds as described above (pinching just the half of the dough closest to you into a small fold, then pressing it down against the half of wrapper furthest from you to seal) from the center to one edge of the semicircle Then, repeat the process from the center to the other edge, folding in the opposite direction this time.

3. Place the gyoza on a plate and cover with a kitchen towel to keep it from drying out. Continue in this way until you have formed all of the gyoza.

For the dipping sauce: 1. Combine all ingredients in a small bowl.

To cook:

1. Heat 2 tsp of a neutral oil on medium in a large skillet. Add gyoza in a single layer and allow to fry until their bottoms are lightly golden-brown.

2. Pour 2-3 Tbsp of water in the center of the pan (not over the gyoza). Immediately cover the pan to allow the gyoza to steam until slightly translucent, about 3 minutes.

3. Uncover the pan and cook until the water has completely evaporated out.

4. Drizzle toasted sesame oil over the gyoza to re-crisp the bottoms and add flavor. Cook until the bottoms of the gyoza are deeply golden brown.

Serve hot with dipping sauce.

Gyoza may be frozen and fried later. Form them and store them immediately (without frying or steaming them) with sheets of parchment paper between each layer; fry and steam them directly from frozen without thawing.

[literarymeals]

Brother Alf remarked that Friar Hugo had excelled himself, as course after course was brought to the table. Tender freshwater shrimp garnished with cream and rose leaves, devilled barley pearls in acorn purée, apple and carrot chews, marinated cabbage stalks steeped in creamed white turnip with nutmeg.

Brian Jacques, Redwall

[sweethoneyrose83]

Cabbage Sausage Wraps:

Ingredients:

- 1 head of cabbage

- 1 lb sausage (any kind you prefer, such as Italian sausage or bratwurst)

- 1 onion, finely chopped

- 2 cloves garlic, minced

- 1 cup cooked rice

- 1 teaspoon paprika

- Salt and pepper to taste

- 1 cup tomato sauce

- 1 cup chicken or vegetable broth

- Chopped fresh parsley (optional, for garnish)

Instructions:

1. Prepare the Cabbage Leaves:

- Bring a large pot of water to a boil.

- Carefully remove the outer leaves of the cabbage and blanch them in the boiling water for about 2-3 minutes, until they are tender and pliable. Remove and set aside to cool.

2. Prepare the Filling:

- In a large skillet, cook the sausage over medium heat until browned and cooked through. Remove from the skillet and set aside.

- In the same skillet, add the chopped onion and cook until softened, about 3-4 minutes. Add the minced garlic and cook for another minute until fragrant.

3. Combine Filling Ingredients:

- Return the cooked sausage to the skillet with the onion and garlic. Add the cooked rice, paprika, salt, and pepper. Stir everything together until well combined. Remove from heat.

4. Assemble the Wraps:

- Take each blanched cabbage leaf and place a spoonful of the sausage and rice filling in the center. Fold the sides of the leaf over the filling, then roll it up tightly, like a burrito.

5. Cook the Wraps:

- In a large pot or deep skillet, spread a thin layer of tomato sauce on the bottom.

- Arrange the cabbage wraps, seam side down, in the pot. Pour the remaining tomato sauce over the wraps.

- Add enough chicken or vegetable broth to almost cover the wraps.

- Cover the pot and simmer over medium-low heat for about 30-40 minutes, or until the cabbage is tender and the flavors have melded together.

6. Serve:

- Carefully remove the cabbage wraps from the pot and place them on a serving dish. Spoon some of the tomato sauce and broth mixture over the wraps. Garnish with chopped fresh parsley if desired.

- Serve hot and enjoy your cabbage sausage wraps!

[lowcarbloves]

**Keto Goulash Recipe**

I've been following a Keto lifestyle for over three years, and while I've tried countless recipes, this one has quickly become one of my top four Keto favorites! It's absolutely delicious. 😋❤

Message me if you would like to download my step by step weightloss meal plan and recipe cookbook.

**Ingredients:**

- 2 pounds ground beef (80/20)

- 1 large yellow onion, chopped

- 4 cloves garlic, minced

- 1 can (15 ounces) tomato sauce

- 1 can (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes

- 1 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce

- 2 tablespoons dried oregano

- 2 teaspoons dried basil

- 2 dried bay leaves

- 1 tablespoon kosher salt

- 1/2 teaspoon black pepper

- 10 ounces cabbage, shredded

- 1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, shredded (optional, for topping)

**Instructions:**

1. In a large skillet, cook the ground beef over medium heat until browned. Drain excess fat if needed.

2. Add the chopped onion and minced garlic to the skillet. Sauté until the onion becomes translucent.

3. Stir in the tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, soy sauce, oregano, basil, bay leaves, salt, and pepper. Mix well to combine.

4. Add the shredded cabbage to the skillet, stirring it into the beef mixture.

5. Cover and simmer on low heat for about 20-30 minutes, until the cabbage is tender and the flavors are well combined.

6. If desired, sprinkle the shredded cheddar cheese on top before serving.

Enjoy your Keto Goulash! #keto #ketorecipes