#unusual recipes

[renewgoo]

Funky Cartoon Hot Dogs Chocolate Smoothie Sweet Salty Fun Quirky Sweet Treat to Eat Yummy

Step into the world of sweet and savory with our funky cartoon hot dogs chocolate smoothie! Join us on a fun and quirky journey as we blend these unlikely ingredients together to create a delicious and unique drink. Watch as we mix, pour, and sip on this ultimate sweet and salty combo, perfect for your inner child. So grab a straw and let's dive in!

While hotdogs and chocolate may not be a traditional combination, there are a few ways you could experiment with them:

Sweet and savory: You could try topping your hotdog with a chocolate sauce or drizzle, for a sweet and savory combination. This could work especially well if you have a spicier hotdog, like a jalapeno cheddar sausage, which would balance out the sweetness of the chocolate.

Chocolate chili dogs: Chili dogs are a classic favorite, and you could experiment with adding some cocoa powder or melted chocolate to your chili recipe. This could add a rich and earthy flavor to the dish, and would pair well with the spiciness of the chili.

Chocolate covered hotdogs: If you're feeling adventurous, you could try dipping your hotdog in melted chocolate and adding some toppings, like crushed nuts or sprinkles. This would be a fun and unique twist on the classic corn dog.

Overall, while hotdogs and chocolate may not seem like an obvious pairing, there are ways you could experiment with them to create some fun and unexpected flavor combinations!

#cartoonfood #smoothierecipes #hotdoglover #chocolatelover #sweetandsavory #uniqueblend #quirkyfood #foodieadventures #foodexplorer #sweettreats

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[athina-blaine]

His own breath ragged, Ambrosius leaned in again, just close enough for his lips to graze against Ballister's.

“Let me take care of you.”

-

Ballister loses track of the time and gets caught in the rain. Ambrosius rises to the occasion.

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Ballister Blackheart | Ballister Boldheart/Ambrosius Goldenloin Chapters: 1/1 Chapter Word Count: ~5k Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Pre-Canon, Service Top Ambrosius, Ballister Acts Like a Sad Wet Cat, Explicit Sexual Content

Inspired by @sefarlen's art here (NSFW), and a very happy Valentine's Day to you as well 😉😉😉 haha what do you mean it's apri

-

Closing the door behind him with a soft click, Ambrosius slipped off his running shoes before stepping inside the apartment. His heart still raced with exertion as he pulled down the hood of his rain-slicked jacket, sweat cooling on the back of his neck and face. The rain had brought down the temperature to a crisp, sublime briskness, and it had been perfect for his evening run (even if his hair could do without the humidity).

Hanging his jacket on the coat rack, chin bobbing to the beat of his music, his eyes passed over the row of shoes, lingering on the leftmost shelf. He paused. The black boots that usually occupied the space were still absent, the same as they were when Ambrosius had first gotten home.

It wasn’t often Ambrosius beat Ballister back at the end of the day, with Ballister usually having long since buried himself in his academy reports. Even rarer for Ambrosius to finish his run and still see that shelf empty. Perhaps he’d gotten carried away with his research project in the archives. Still, why not give Ambrosius a heads-up?

Ambrosius pushed down his growing anxiety. It’s not as if Ballister has never been this late coming home before, especially with their development reports due soon. Ambrosius would just need to call, that was all. Nothing to worry about.

But first, Ambrosius desperately needed a drink. Bending down to open the refrigerator, he retrieved his water bottle and took a slow sip, eyes surveying the inside of the fridge. His fingers tapped to the beat of his music against the fridge door. They haven’t already eaten through all of those strawberries, have they …?

Through his earbuds, he heard a muffled thud behind him. He glanced over just in time to see Ballister shuffle into the main room, his gait sluggish as he dragged his hand down his face. He didn’t seem to notice Ambrosius as he let out a tired sigh, running his hand through his hair.

Ambrosius straightened, letting the fridge door close, and Ballister’s eyes snapped upwards. When their gazes met, Ballister faltered. For a fleeting moment, Ambrosius could see him attempt to mask the fatigue in his eyes, but Ambrosius’ concern must have been obvious as he quickly gave up the charade. He raised a hand, a weary smile tugging his lips. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

[Continue on AO3]

[sergle]

how are duck eggs better for baking, do they taste better in sweet foods than chicken eggs? ive never had them before

OH man okay, so, duck eggs are very fun! They're bigger, they have thicker shells and membranes, and the egg itself is Eggier. It just tastes more like Egg. Egg Times Two. They're also a just structurally different- they have more fat and more protein, and the whites of the egg are a lot thicker. Chicken eggs, in comparison to duck eggs, are more... watery???? And the yolks are way smaller than duck yolks. So when we had ducks, I'd normally use duck eggs if I was gonna bake something, bc the lower water content and higher fat/protein content in them just seemed to really help things turn out better. More flavor and more structure.

[padawansuggest]

Cobb: *concerned look at the bathroom* Are you sure he’s okay in there?

Boba: Of course he is. That was ba’buir’s famous curry recipe.

Cobb: What’s it famous for; making grown men cry? Because he was really choking up before he ran in there. If the medi droid hadn’t confirmed this wasn’t an allergic reaction I’d be afraid his throat was closing.

Boba: Listen, Din basically lives off ration bars and bland soup. He’s just expelling some demons in a very Mandalorian way.

Fennec: *only catching that last part as she comes back from checking on Din, Grogu climbing down from her boot so he can toddle off to Boba* Expelling demons, huh? His momma might know something about that, she takes me for a very traditional ladie, that armorer.

Boba: *picking up a worried bean, giving him gentle ear pets* She is. That’s not what I meant, though. Just confirming we didn’t poison him.

Fennec: Ahh. So you don’t plan to exorcise him, then?

Boba: …?? Does… does he need it?

Fennec: idk. Sometimes I find him whispering to corners like a cat. Like he sees someone we don’t.

Boba: …we’ll call his Buir. She said he didn’t seem possessed the last time she saw him.

Fennec: idk these things come on fast.

Cobb: *deep sigh, leaves them to their single braincell, takes the baby and wanders off to find some blue milk to give Din so he stops crying*

[cerealkiller740]

1953 Jello Salad and Soufflé ideas and recipes advertising

[danielnelsen]

the dragon age cookbook is sitting on a really interesting line when it comes to canon, because it's written in-universe but sometimes you just have to list an ingredient like 'thai chili paste'

[here-there-were-dragons]

as a general rule, on average, if americans consistently complain about a food being conceptually weird, gross, and scary, then it probably tastes amazing. or at least inoffensive.

this is because in my experience americans for the most part (give or take a few exceptions by region) think eating literally anything other than beef, chicken, bread, eggs, peanut butter jelly sandwitches, ketchup, and disgusting cloyingly artificial brown sludge soda is insurmountably weird, gross, and scary.

[wantonlywindswept]

gotta say i have been seeing some extremely cold takes in my chosen fandom of late and i am both Not About It but also Very Tired

[therecipelibrary]

Cat's Tongue Biscuits

-Mrs A.B. Marshall's Cook Book circa 1905

[cutepalefeelings]

With Mayo - Cranberry Coleslaw

[your-recipes]

Sanchong Cooking Ham with Quail Eggs and French Fries

Experience a delightful combination of flavors with our Sanchong Cooking Ham served with Quail Eggs and French Fries! This trendy dish brings together the rich, savory taste of Sanchong cooking ham, perfectly paired with tender quail eggs and crispy French fries. Whether you're looking for a unique breakfast, a satisfying brunch, or a fun dinner idea, this recipe has it all.

In this video, we'll show you how to prepare each component to perfection. Learn how to cook the Sanchong ham until it's juicy and flavorful, how to boil quail eggs to the right consistency, and how to make the crispiest French fries. This easy-to-follow tutorial ensures you can recreate this delicious meal in your own kitchen.

Join us for this culinary adventure and impress your family and friends with this innovative dish. Don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe for more exciting recipes and cooking tips!

#SanchongHam #QuailEggs #FrenchFries #TrendingRecipe #DeliciousMeals #HomeCooking #Foodie #Recipe #CookingTutorial #EasyRecipes #Yummy #FoodLovers #GourmetAtHome

[pjakes]

Celebrating National Salad Month: A Fresh Take on Healthy Eating

May is a month that brings a burst of spring colors and flavors, and what better way to enjoy this than by celebrating National Salad Month? This special month, established in 1992 by the Association for Dressing and Sauces, encourages everyone to embrace the art of salad-making and the joy of fresh vegetables. Salads have been a staple of healthy eating for centuries, with records of leafy…

[tenrose]

My mom asked me for one of my recipes, how the table turned!!!

[cerealkiller740]

1959 Fleischmann’s Yeast ad with Tuna Pizza Lenten recipe 😬

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

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