#which seems sad that i count requirements to be alive like making a sandwich as one of my limited energy spends of the day lol

[cheddar-baby]

You know i feel like i've been physically and mentally exhausted every day for like 4 years straight.

[szynkaaa]

I more or less watched The Boy!!! And by watching, I mean I skipped more or less through the jump scare parts because I cannot do horror movies at all. I haven’t watched one since 2015 and The Boy was like the first horror movie after five years

Full disclosure, the ONLY reason I started watching the movie was because someone posted a gif of Greta standing close to Brahms who was all sweaty and breathing heavily n I was like “oh shit who dat he hot” and here I am 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her?

I did some digging for interviews and generally what people have been saying about the movie, took some screenshots from youtube to put my thoughts and musing together too! 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her? 

So first of all, let’s start with a low resolution photo I found on IG of James Russell without mask:

which brings me to my first musing/thought/question? 

It’s all under the cut, very screenshot and text heavy, you can find more Brahms drawing at the bottom though  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So at the end of the movie, we are shown a Brahms with a broken mask and his face being burned, indicating that he was in fact in the fire.

I assumed first that the fire was created by the parents to fake their sons death and then he had to live hidden inside the walls? 

But I’ve also heard apparently it was Brahms who set the fire to fake his own death or maybe an eight years old kid really was trying to burn himself down?? 

My other theory is that his parents made the fire and tried to kill Brahms and it did burn him but he survived, and the parents didn’t wanna go to jail sooo to hide everything they made their son live in the walls

i mean the responsible thing would be to turn their kid in and have him treated and stuff;;; listened to a murder podcast about two cases where kids murdered enough kids and how they are doing now interesting read Brahms made me think of those two cases 

I also do not think that the previous nannies were killed. Like, c’mon. You’d report a person missing and sooner or later it would go back to the Heelshire mansion and if the body counts piles up? Can’t look good and I doubt that the Heelshire wants the police investigating them close up. 

Also, when the mom was like “He’s chosen you if you’ll have him” to Greta? Is it just me or the wording or does it sound like a marriage proposal/arrangement xD 

Brahms is a brat and he sees the people around him as his possession or to toy around. But I also do think that he has some abandonment issues but not in the sad tragic kind of way lmao. Even if he was the one controlling and manipulating his parents from behind-the-scene (quite literally I suppose?), he was still told as a kid to live in hiding and that no one can know he is alive. I don’t know much about the human brain, but I can imagine how damaging that must be to his mental growth and set him back in some way? We don’t know too much about his relationship with his parents - but I assume that he must have still loved them in his own twisted way. Can’t imagine that he would have been indifferent about his parents suicide. 

The scene before Greta manages to back out - first he uses the child voice to beg her to come back and promises he will be good. That’s his manipulating Greta, but when that doesn’t work and she tries harder to open the door, he becomes more desperate to keep her there and then completely loses his temper and threatens to kill Malcolm if she doesn’t return. I’m pretty sure homeboy would have killed him anyway. And then later when she returns and he is all heavy breathing and smelling her hair and then jumps up when she shouts Brahms? Idk I def think there is some sort of abandonment issue going on. 

I don’t think he is a child stuck in a man’s body or manchild or whatever. I think that he does know how to take care of himself - but he just chooses to manipulate people with the facade of a kid to do his bidding and cater to his needs. 

Anywhomst, but clearly Brahms is also a very manipulative and controlling person based, based on how the mother was reacting on the destroyed bedroom, she really seemed to be at the end of her wits and just breaking down with her “you promised you’d be good”. It was very heartbreaking to watch and also scary because it really makes you realize just how much power Brahms holds over them?? idk maybe it was just me.

Next point: the CGI mask  + the burns 

So according to some interviews with the director stated that at the first test streaming, people weren’t really scared of Brahms because he was too handsome so they had to slap a mask over his face. The face was done after everything was filmed. I’m thinking the face burns were also added post-production when they were adding the cgi mask. Otherwise, James would have needed to go through the makeup department for some wicked face burns and it would have been visible during the filming and test screening too? Which would imply that at first the fire was supposed to be just  a cover story that their son is dead and it was changed later

Observation/thoughts on Brahms Heelshire

Love how he stands there with his hands behind his back and then nods when Greta tells him to go under the cover

James Russell is 191cm tall. So like. Brahms is really fucking tall. But I notice that most of the time he stands with a slight hunch. Could be due to him crawling through the walls and crawling out of places that requires him to do a lot of crouching. His bed in his hideout made me really sad, I’ll get to it later. 

Since James didn’t get many lines in the ten minutes that he appeared, I do think that his eyes did all the acting. They stand out even more with the mask on, there is just this crazy look on it. I also noticed during my rewatch that he doesn’t seem to blink much or at all. 

Oh yeah, he also peeped on Greta and Malcolm making out on the bed and then cockblocked them. We been knowing that he made a Greta doll and very likely jerked off to it. We also been knowing that he very very very likely wanted to bone Greta at the goodnight kiss scene still waiting for the maskeless kiss scene gimme gimme. I also highly doubt that Brahms has much first-hand experience with kissing n stuff. High key thinking he was trying to do copy Malcolm and do what he observed lmao

When I first watched the scene, I assumed that the hole behind the mirror has always been and it’s just another one of the hidden passages Brahms to slip in and out, but now that I’m looking at the shape of the holes, it seems to me more like the mirror and brick wall were broken at the same time?? If that is the case holy shit boy is s t  r o n g. I mean, he also punched through the closet door like no big deal so really what have the parents been feeding him. 

I’m also leaning toward the fact that he ran there because Greta screamed loudly. I don’t think he was in the room as them when everything went down there, it seemed more like he heard the scream and had to nyoomed over and then punched a way through to get out of the wall. And then went on to attack Cole. He must have known that Greta wanted Cole gone, since that what she whispered to the doll before going to bed. 

Tbh, I fully expected him to murder Cole in his sleep, but Brahms wrote a warning message in blood to tell him to get out soooooo like. Cole you were warned and now you gotta live with the consequences ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Brahm’s sleeping corner

This scene was shown at the end after Greta and Malcolm escaped. We also see them briefly during the part where Greta and Malcolm are trying to find a way out and stumbled into Brahms’ hideout. I’m not sure why the rules are slapped on the walls. It seems to me that Brahms is very very very set on that the rules / routine should be followed. In the movie, he called Greta and suggested to her that she should follow the rules, to which she then started doing it.

I headcanon that that’s the routine that he grew up with as a kid and it’s just very very very very very hard to break out of it - not that he is trying to break the routine. 

I’m failing to find a good way to put my thoughts into words, but I guess the rules and routine is sort of his coping mechanism? 

I suppose if you had an OC that you ship Brahms with and want to change stuff around the house, the OC would have to very slowly introduce new rules and routines. Baby steps, yknow.

Brahms has a violin hanging there! Honestly I would be surprised if Brahms didn’t know how to play at least one instrument. The family also has an old ass piano/clavichord (?) and Brahms loves classical music soo yeah. Love me a boy who appreciates classical musical hehe

I suppose the egg boxes are there to soundproof the room more - maybe so he can play the violin? 

There’s also music sheets hung around his attics, it’s not clear on the screenshots but when you rewatch the scene and shove your face close to the screen. Some are hanging next to the violin and there are some taped on the wall next to his bed and porn too

nice to see he has a fridge and microwave, I was concerned that he wasn’t well fed and that leftovers might not be enough, but then again. Dude is 191 cm so clearly he has been drinking his milk

Didn’t take a screenshot of his vanity, but there is a crocodile magnet stuck to the mirror hehe. I do think that he shaves and stuff, otherwise his beard would be much longer??

We can see more music sheets stuck to a pillar on the right. 

Loving the christmas lights that he has hanging there above his bed. It’s cute. 

On the shelf he has a bunch of tupperware and empty bowls. Most of hte things are neatly organized. We can also see some books and a pen

There’s some sunlight streaming inside - I do hope that Brahmsy stays warm during winters.

Here we can see more of the food that he has there - there is also a sink but I didn’t snatch a screenshot of it. I think those are potatoes in the pot? Maybe he does know how to cook some basic stuff, I do wonder if he has a functioning kitchen up there. Probably not for fire safety reasons lol

Yall see that thing on the note sheet covered pillar? Ngl, that’s a whole ass aesthetic right there.

He got a few potted plants up there. Took a closer look at them and it seems like they were healthy. So he knows how to take care of plants, which is nice to know I suppose?

Yes, we all know what he was doing with the doll and what the tissue balled up tissue implies. However, has anyone noticed the size of the bed??? 

If you scroll up a bit to the screenshot of Greta seeing the doll, it looks t i n y. The make shift doll takes up more than half of the space. 

Yall. this breaks my heart. Dude is a beanstalk. I’m pretty sure the bed is from when he was a kid shoved by his parents to live inside the wall, does he have to sleep there in his adulthood too??? 

Even though Brahms strikes me as someone who probably doesn’t sleep much or during normal times, that bed must be so tiny for him. He must be sleeping with his knees bend and shit unable to stretch out :((( 

Brahms: is a psychopath that smashed the skull of a girl and very abusive tormented his parents and then Greta Me: omg he needs a bigger bed that poor thing :(((

Brahms’ DIY corner 

Ah yes, Brahm’s little DIY/creative corner. 

Homeboy got lot of animal traps, cages and taxidermies hanging around, pointing strongly toward that it’s a hobby of it? 

Also at the end where we see him fixing up the doll, we can get a better shot at his desk, and I gotta say the threads and stuff are all very nicely organized. Brahms’s table looks more organized than mine does lmao. 

So we know he is a crafty boy. Not sure how difficult taxidermy is but I imagine it does take a lot of time to learn? Well he had all the time in the world anyway.

So yeah, that’s a wrap. Congrats if you made it to the bottom of my incoherent thoughts and ramblings, have a bonus drawing of Brahms wearing different masks: 

[yuta-nakamots]

Candle Light - l.hc ; Part 2 of 2 (End)

Pairing - College!Haechan x Ghost!Reader

Genre - Fluff but mostly angst at the end

Warnings - Character death, supernatural activity (you are literally a ghost)

Summary - As the resident ghost that haunts your old apartment, you take pride in scaring away those who dare move in, not wanting them to ruin your memories. Though your mission changes after a group of boys arrive. These are the four boys you allow into your space and your heart. One of them is the candle that supports you, and you are the fire that burns atop it, his beacon of light.

Word Count - 6.2k

A/N - as always, credit goes to @soleilhyuck​ for coming up with the idea for this fic. thank you for patiently waiting and giving lots of love to this series and please look forward to frat boy!yuta next month as well <3

Tag List - @sunflowerhae @eunsangelical @soleilhyuck @neoyoungho @carefreebubble @sly-merlin @jisungismymom @jimelonji @lyraaacle @peachy-yabbay @yomanitsgonnabehee​

January 2020

News about the new virus was quickly spreading, as was the disease itself, unironically. You sat next to Renjun as he watched the news on TV and played a game on his phone while Jeno was lying on the floor in front of the coffee table as he typed out an essay on his laptop.

You watched as the newscaster stood in front of a graph showing the number of cases spiking up as he said “all local colleges will be migrating to an online schooling system for the second half of this year” to which Jeno let out a loud groan at.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do all my labs then?” he muttered under his breath, angrily hitting the carpeted floor. You laughed at his childish action, Jeno’s head whipping around as he looked in your general direction with his pupils shaking as he tried to find a face to match the voice he had just heard.

“Hey y/n, I think Jeno can hear you,” Renjun said nonchalantly as he continued watching the news station on TV, “okay, Jeno wait I think you should pay attention to the screen.”

He informed the other boy just in time as the anchor said “certain schools have disclosed that some students may still be required to return to campus for activities such as labs or other assessment events.”

Jeno rolled onto his back, letting out another groan that was almost actually a growl. “I don’t know which is worse. Having to go to school during a pandemic, or having to learn from my computer 24/7.”

February 2020

As more plans for the second semester were announced, Jeno did end up having to still visit the campus for his labs so he was occasionally out along with Jaemin who was volunteering at a hospital nearby, the same one your body was taken to after the incident, not that you’d ever tell them that though.

Jaemin had convinced Renjun to come along saying “we need extra help and it’s not like you’re doing anything anyways now that class is online” as he quite literally dragged Renjun out the front door.

This left you with Haechan, who was only able to see you in certain instances because he was still not totally sure if you really existed or not. He still used the scented candles in his room, much to your distaste, since you found yourself having to put out the flame nearly every night due to his forgetfulness.

He’d spend almost every waking moment on his computer playing Overwatch and whatever other games he was into, only stopping when we had to attend his mandatory online lectures. Even then, he’d still have the game up on his screen, barely even caring about the lecture.

Eventually, this irritated you enough, having been quite a good student yourself, to the point where you just lost it when you saw him pull up his school account and you peered over his shoulder and realizing how bad his grades really were.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know.” You spoke to him, hovering behind him as you read through the contents of his student profile.

Haechan froze for a second, surprised by your voice though he didn’t make an effort to turn around. “Well, you shouldn’t just scare people like that.” He retorted at you.

“Then don’t take your college life for granted,” you remark, not missing the high amount of absences he had even though all his courses were online, “I would’ve loved to have completed mine, but that just didn’t seem to be in my life plan now, was it?” You asked rhetorically, your voice laced with sarcasm to match his.

“What are you gonna do about it, huh?” He spat out at you. “You can’t force me to study.”

You rolled your eyes at him even if he couldn’t see you as you scoffed, “yes I can.” Quite literally, you moved through his desk and unplugged his computer from its power socket. A satisfactory grin fell upon your face as you heard his monitor die out and you look at him. His mouth was slightly agape as he finally saw you up close, your previously translucent figure becoming clearer and clearer to him with every second that passed.

From then on, Haechan consciously made an effort to cut back on his gaming and dedicate more time to his schoolwork, as he hated not knowing when you’d decide to pop into his room again and he didn’t want to risk more damage to his precious computer.

Sometimes he’d spend so much time studying that he’d even fall asleep at his desk, to which you could only sigh at as you fanned out the flames of his stupid scented candles that he continued to use before grabbing his blanket from his bed and placing it atop his shoulders.

March 2020

You found that you actually quite enjoyed spending time with Haechan as he was more entertaining and witty than Renjun. Though on a particularly slow afternoon, you watched Haechan as he went about making a sandwich in the kitchen, making yourself known to him by a light tug on his shirt before he asked “so why exactly do you haunt this apartment?”

You were leaning against the kitchen island behind him, not even having bothered to materialize in your semi-human form since you let him pick and choose when he wanted to see you or not. “If I’m being honest, I really don’t know. All I’m sure about is that this unit is my unit. It always has been and it always will be.”

“Well, what are your ties to this place? What does it mean to you?” He pressed on as he grabbed a slice of bologna from the refrigerator.

After pausing for a second as you recall your past, you told him “this is where I grew up, my parents moved here when I started elementary school and I’ve lived here for almost twenty years until I died and ever since then, I’ve just been here.”

“I’m sorry,” he interjected, looking at you and making eye contact to let you know he was being sincere, “I really am. You had so much to live for, your whole life ahead of you.” He shook his head in pity as he unwrapped a piece of cheese.

“Things don’t always go according to your plan, as you can see,” you stated before continuing on with your story, “anyways, my family moved out shortly after my incident because my sister would always cry whenever she had to pass the spot I was last alive at and eventually my parents couldn’t take it anymore so they just up and left.”

Haechan was unscrewing the lid of the jar of mayonnaise when he asked “why didn’t you stop them? Or did you try but they just weren’t able to see you?”

“They couldn’t see or hear me. I tried calling out to them, telling them I was still here, I was still alive, but nothing worked...and so they left me behind.” Your voice trailing off at the end as you felt a familiar pain in your chest at the memory of your family.

Haechan hummed in acknowledgment, spreading pieces of lettuce over the top of his sandwich, going silent before speaking again. “I think you need closure. Do you know where your family went to? I’m pretty sure we could--”

“No, I’d rather not talk to them.” You interrupted, not wanting to witness your family in pain again after having to watch them mourn your death in this very apartment. To them, you were a thing of the past and you wished to stay that way.

“You can’t just be cursed to wander around this unit for the rest of your life, or lack thereof. That’s a bit…” he paused as he wracked his brain for a word, turning up blank, “sad, for lack of a better word.”

You watched as he placed a slice of bread on top and pressed it down before biting into his creation. “It’s not like it was my choice in the first place, you know,” you strongly articulated, “if you really wanted to help me then you’d leave this place and let me wander in peace now that you know my story.”

“We both know damn well that you’re not gonna be happy if we leave you on your own.” And the most surprising part of his statement was that he was right.

April 2020

After your previous conversation with Haechan, the two of you started avoiding each other and you ended up spending more time with Jeno when he eventually came around to being able to see you. He was more of an easygoing presence and he didn’t mind it when you stayed in his room, he just asked that you “don’t mess with my stuff like when you stacked all my books up and turned my clothes inside out” the memory of it still makes you laugh to yourself.

You felt bad for Jeno, seeing him come home already exhausted from his labs and lectures, letting out a loud sigh whenever he entered through the front door as he was finally able to take off his face mask and allow himself to take a deep breath of air.

You’d often find him dozing off at his desk, his face resting either on his arm or on whatever page he had been going over. Sometimes, if you knew the assignment was important or if the deadline was near, you’d try to keep him awake by doing this like clicking his book or dropping a book on the floor. But if he was really knocked out, all you could do was just plug in his electronics to let them charge before bookmarking his page and clearing his desk for him.

On the night of his 20th birthday, the boys decided to have their own mini-party, which you excused yourself from. You didn’t want to get in the way of their celebration since you didn’t know for sure where you stood with Haechan and that’s on top of the fact that Jaemin still didn’t believe in your existence.

You stayed in Jeno’s room, softly plucking at the strings of his guitar which he had kindly left out for you. He had previously voiced his worries about you getting bored from always staying in the unit, which you found quite cute of him.

He came back to his room around midnight and you watched as he drunkenly made his way to the bathroom, stumbling in and nearly tripping over his own feet. You heard him throwing up into the toilet but you stayed put, knowing that you wouldn’t be of much help anyway. You recognized the sound of Haechan’s voice as he entered from his own side and tried to clean Jeno up.

Moments later, Haechan came into the room carrying a near unconscious Jeno to the bed you were currently sitting on. All Haechan had to do was merely glance at you before you were already materializing in human form to put Jeno’s guitar back on its stand and help Haechan get the birthday boy into bed.

Once Jeno was tucked in and snoring, you looked up at Haechan and he nodded his head in the direction of his room, inviting you to come over with him, which you did without much hesitation. You sat on the edge of his bed as he started up his computer as he asked you “don’t you ever get tired of just staying in the apartment all the time?”

You watched as he typed in his login information as you responded, “kind of, I guess. It’s all I know so it’s not like I really have anywhere else to go.”

“Have you ever tried leaving the building, or this unit at all?” He inquired while pulling up a page on google.

You thought for a moment before answering him. “No, I’ve never really wanted to leave because I’m comfortable here.”

Haechan simply nodded and stated “fair enough” as he switched tabs before turning to you. “I found this article the other day and I think this is relevant to you.” He informed, beckoning you over to him. You moved closer and read it from over his shoulder.

Certain spirits roam the earth as ghosts due to their souls holding onto the regret they had while they were still living. It is common for these types of ghosts to stay in a place that they have special emotional ties to. They often try to scare away people who enter their sacred place as they are trying to preserve it as it is in their memory, resisting change. There have been successful cases of exorcism for these types of ghosts, though oftentimes, it serves to only anger them further, which is why exorcism is not recommended. Edit: It has been found that the spirits often pass on to the true afterlife once they let go of the regrets they are holding and free themselves from the baggage that is tying them to their sacred place.

“Haechan, I already told you, I’m not leaving.”

“But think about it, you can’t just continue existing with one foot in the afterlife, one foot in the during-life,” causing you to laugh at his wording, “aren’t there other dead people you’d like to meet? You know, like Michael Jackson or something?”

“Of course, but how would you know if there really is an afterlife where I could meet them?”

“I don’t, but aren’t you getting tired of just watching people come and go? Aren’t you curious about the existence of an afterlife? You’ve been here for what, two years?”

“Three years.” You corrected, though he was correct about your boredom and curiosity even if it really was just in the slightest form.

You weren’t looking forward to when the boys moved out as it meant you’d be left on your own again. You had grown used to the four of them since you had at least one of them home at nearly all times. You didn’t want them to leave and you had even though about asking them to stay, but you knew it would be unfair to them as they had previously talked about their future educational plans.

Renjun already was in the process of transferring to a school or arts to further hone his skills as he was nearing the completion of his traditional core credits. Jeno wanted to study abroad and experience different cultures while Jaemin simply would follow along, having promised both of their parents that he would look out for Jeno and make sure he didn’t overwork himself though oftentimes it was the other way around.

As finals came around again, you witnessed the boys and their ways of dealing with the stress of their exams. Renjun simply painted aggressively while Jeno started stretching and working out more often and Jaemin, who still wasn’t able to hear or see you, resorted to cooking. You couldn’t believe Haechan broke out those godforsaken candles yet again, even after you had voiced your hatred for them, having to put out their flames and clean up the dripping wax as to not cause a fire hazard.

One day, Jaemin was finally able to see a faint outline of your silhouette when you managed to catch the knife he had accidentally pushed off the counter while preparing dinner for the guys. He really didn’t believe them when they spoke of your existence, he simply thought it was some kind of odd prank they were all in on, but when he saw his knife floating mere centimeters above his foot, he realized they weren’t lying at all.

Ever since then, you’ve enjoyed hanging around with all four of the boys. They each introduced you to their hobbies and did their best at including you in as many activities as possible. Renjun was overjoyed when he saw you lift a brush from his case and when you asked if you could join him. He was painting a simple sunset and was more than happy to have your company. Renju let you paint any way you wished, only helping here and there to blend in your strokes and fix some of the color gradients.

After it dried, you stood back as he hung the canvas up in the living room with a broad smile on his face. He turned around and you watched as his expression morphed into one of confusion when he didn’t see you behind him and he called out your name. You felt a sense of anxiety creep up on you, reminiscent of the feeling of when your own family were not about to see you.

You knew Renjun had it easiest when it came to seeing and hearing you so why was he having a hard time now? “Oh, there you are.” He said, when you came into his view again, seemingly lightheartedly but it was hard for both of you to feel at ease after what just occurred.

It happened again when you were with Jeno as he was teaching you how to play a few chords on his guitar, something you had always wanted to do in your active lifetime. The two of you had been going at it for about an hour now and things were going pretty smoothly aside from Jeno having to help press the strings down when your own fingers weren’t enough.

You were able to learn a few simple chords separately but right before you were able to string them all together, the guitar suddenly fell through your hold into Jeno’s hands that were helping you apply pressure to the strings. He let out a noise of surprise as he too could no longer see your form.

He blinked rapidly, thinking it was his own eyes playing tricks on him until you saw him relax as both of you witnessed your own body flicker back into existence. This time, there was definitely no denying what just happened.

Later that night you went to Haechan and told him both accounts of what was going on and you broke down in tears, telling him how you didn’t want to leave them just yet. He rubbed your back as you clung on to his shirt, your tears would’ve been soaking it if you weren’t a ghost.

As much as you wanted to stay in his embrace, he told you that he had to study for an upcoming final so you instead settled for lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling as you let your mind wander through all the what-ifs going through your head.

You’re not sure how much time passed before Haechan finally climbed into his bed, throwing an arm over your waist. No sooner than before he lifted his head to speak to you, his arm dropped through your body and fell onto his bed. The shock was evident on his face as he watched you fade out from his view.

Haechan frantically reached out, trying to grasp onto something, anything to tell him that you were still there as he called out your name. You did the same to him, but your cries fell on deaf ears until one of your hands managed to grab ahold of his and he found your eyes, the fear in his mirroring your own.

You laid with Haechan as he slept that night, scared that you’d cease to exist if he weren’t by your side to validate your presence every so often.

May 2, 2020

One night, as all of you were in the living room watching a show on Netflix, as per Renjun’s recommendation, you mentioned these repeated occurrences to them causing a thick silence to fall over everyone as they processed what this possibly meant for you.

Again, you sought out Haechan’s comfort that night and stayed by his side as he slept because being with him made you feel the slightest bit more real, even when his arm dropped from your waist again.

Now that finals week was over, the boys were home more often, though Jaemin still continued to work and volunteer at the hospital with Renjun, leaving you with Jeno and Haechan. Not much changed as you still continued to stick to Haechan like glue.

May 14, 2020

About two weeks after you had first brought up the topic of your frequency disappearances, you were lying next to Haechan in his bed as you both watched videos on his phone. He abruptly turned it off and turned to face you. “Have you ever been in a relationship before?”

You shook your head, “no, I was always too bust for one.”

“Did you want to be in one? Do you want to be in one?” You froze as you looked at him, not sure if he meant what you’re thinking he means. “On a scale from one to ten, how mad would you be right now if I told you I might have feelings for you?”

You thought for a moment before responding. “Depends on if you’re being serious or not.”

“I’m dead serious. Okay, maybe not dead, but you know what I mean.” He said, poking fun at his word choice.

“Do you really like me?” You asked, unsure if you were thinking clearly.

“Yes,” he paused, “but only if you like me back.”

“Is this just a spur of the moment thing or have you actually had feelings for me before this?” You could feel your cheeks heating up and you were suddenly grateful that he couldn’t see you as if you were a normal human.

“For a while now.” He stated, shrugging his shoulders as if it were nothing.

Your eyes grew wide in shock. “I...Haechan, as much as I’m flattered, we both know it’s not going to work out,” your voice getting caught in your throat, “you’re human, you’re still alive. There’s someone out there for you--”

“Okay and?”

“There’s someone who you can hold, someone you can kiss and make love to, someone you can have a family with--”

“And what if that someone is you?” He interrupted again. “What if you’re the someone I want to hold, to kiss, to spend time with?”

“Haechan...I don’t know…” Your voice coming out as more of a whisper.

His eyes searched yours as he spoke. “Just let me kiss you...please.”

You let out a small “okay” as your eyes fluttered shut and you felt his lips meet yours. He showed you the warmth you didn’t know you could even feel as you allowed yourself to melt into his kiss. Had it not been for your body disintegrating again and causing Haechan to fall forward, you probably would’ve stayed kissing him until he was begging for air.

“I guess that’s the universe telling me to give you a break for a bit.” He chuckled while he grabbed his phone and unpaused the video he was playing earlier as he waited for you to appear again. You didn’t have to look at him to know there was a smile plastered on his face as you wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled your face into his chest the very second you could.

If you were considered to be clingy with Haechan, now you were practically inseparable.

May 17, 2020

It was a rare occurrence for all four of them to be home together during the day so Jaemin took it as an opportunity to gather everyone for lunch. He didn’t even knock as he opened the door to Haechan’s room, sticking his head in to say “lunch is ready. I made kimchi stew. Oh, hey y/n, haven’t seen you in a while.”

You whined in embarrassment due to the fact that you were currently seated in Haechan’s lap as he practically held you like a baby, cooing at you and littering kisses across your face.

Once Jaemin was gone, Haechan pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. You know that?” He said, ruffling your hair out of affection.

May 19, 2020

You watch with great interest as Haechan lugs a box into his bedroom and cuts it open, revealing an electronic keyboard. He had told you previously that he wanted to get back into playing piano, having played it when he was younger. You didn’t think he was actually serious enough about it to buy a whole keyboard which, from the looks of it, seemed pretty expensive.

You sat in his gaming chair as you watched him assemble the stand, handing him scissors when he asked and holding things in place when his own two hands weren’t enough. You didn’t trust yourself to do much else in case you randomly disappeared again. Your lips curved upwards as he plugged the keyboard into the socket on the wall and played a few chords, his own smile matching yours.

May 20, 2020

Sighing, you floating your way into Haechan’s room as you notice his sleeping figure hunched over his desk, a little string of drool landing on the lined paper he was writing on. Given that school was already over, you figured it was song lyrics that he was writing.

Haechan, along with getting back into playing piano, had also picked up song composition and lyric writing as well though he refused to show you any of the lyrics he wrote and claimed he’d be embarrassed if you saw them to which you rolled your eyes at. Haechan? Embarrassed? Now that was a rarity given that he was one of the most confident people you’ve ever met, not even bothering to cover himself up the few times you accidentally came in while he was changing his clothes.

But as confident as he was, he had yet to channel that into his lyric writing as he kept falling asleep after hours of trying to get them perfect. You fan out the candle he had been using and run your finger across his lip, gathering his drool, in order to prevent his from further wetting his paper.

You tried to slowly pull the paper out from under his head, doing your best to not wake him up, though your efforts were in vain as his eyes shot open the second you tugged a little too hard. It took Haechan only a second or two to figure out what you were doing before he snatched the paper from you while whining “I told you not to read them” as he puts it in a folder filled with other papers which you assume are also lyrics.

“I was only moving it so you wouldn’t drool on it like a baby.” You scoffed at him.

Haechan imitated your scoff back at you, “don’t lie,” he quipped, “I know you were going to read it as soon as you got your hands on it.”

“You know, you better quit it or else you’re sleeping alone tonight.” You threatened, knowing that your boyfriend of sorts has gotten used to your presence in his bed while he slept.

“No!” He exclaimed, his eyes growing wide in panic before he dove for his bed and gave you puppy eyes, begging you not to leave him.

May 25, 2020

At this point, your disappearances had become more frequent and lasted for longer durations, leaving the boys constantly guessing as to where you were. You could barely muster up the force to show yourself in your human form and physically move objects so you were glad when you realized they could all see you in your regular blue-tinted ghost state.

You considered yourself lucky when they told you they could still feel the gusts of wind you created while moving around, even when you became invisible. It may look stupid to you when you were rapidly moving your arms back in forth to let them know where you are, but it’s not like you cared when you knew they couldn’t see you anyways.

On this day, you were watching a show on TV with Renjun, though he could only vaguely sense your presence. When you heard the sink in the kitchen turn on, you left your seat and floated through the wall to see if it was Jaemin cooking again. Much to your surprise, it was Haechan who was actually doing the dishes for once.

You moved around behind him, alerting him of your presence. “Hey babe, came to do the dishes with me?” You rolled your eyes and rapidly fanned his neck, something you knew he hated because he was ticklish in that area. “Okay, okay, I get it.” He giggled while scrunching his neck.

“Is y/n with you in the kitchen?” Renjun called out from the living room. Haechan shouted back a short ‘yes’ to which you heard Renjun respond back with a slight laugh in his voice, “I thought she was still with me so I was talking about the show but I guess I was just talking to myself this whole time.”

May 29, 2020

No matter how much energy you concentrated, you just couldn’t seem to show yourself in your human form at all. You weren’t completely invisible to the boys yet, just fading in and out of your normal ghost forme every so often, though if you really tried hard  enough, you could force yourself to become visible again, even if it were only for a few seconds. You saved your energy for more important moments like when Haechan shot up from his place next to you in bed, sweating from the nightmare he was having.

For the past half hour or so, you watched him as he writhed in his sleep and you felt your heart wrench knowing there was nothing you could do to rouse him from his sleep, unable to do your normal actions of slamming windows or dropping books so you felt a sense of relief when he jolted awake and looked over to where he knew you’d be, his eyes searching for the outline of your body to give him some comfort.

You forced yourself to show up, glowing faintly in the darkened room as Haechan was able to catch your silhouette before it disappeared again. His eyes bore straight into yours, even if you knew that to him, he was simply staring at a wall so you didn’t move, not wanting to leave his gaze as he spoke to you.

“Y/n, I hope you know that every moment I spend with you is precious to you. Whether I can see you or not, I know when you’re with me.” He confessed, his eyes starting to tear up. “I can only hope that I am making your last moments precious for you as well.”

You hoped so desperately to have enough strength to show yourself again to let him know that you heard him and felt the same way, but you were unable to. Your own wet eyes mirrored his as you reached out a hand to cup his face, a tear slipping out of your eyes as you watch your hand merely fall through his cheek.

June 2, 2020

You’ve come to terms with the fact that your time on earth is running out when you can only seem to manage to materialize once or twice a day, lasting for only about a second each time. You were upset that you didn’t get to say a true goodbye to the other three boys, wanting to thank them for taking such good care of you. Maybe you just so hoped that this regret would keep you with them longer, if only for a few more days.

June 4, 2020

When Haechan returns to his room after eating breakfast with the rest of the guys, you watch as he sits down in front of his keyboard before turning around to face his bed, where he’s guessing you were as he spoke. “Y/n, I wrote this song for you. I don’t know how much longer I have left with you so I rushed the ending of it, but I wanted to show you now before it’s too late.”

With that, he turned back around and began playing a melody you had heard from him before though it was different this time around now that he was singing the lyrics he wrote for you.

Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Moments with you are always special. I’m thankful for all the days we spend together, At times like this I get shy, but it means I love you. When I see you brightly smiling and dazzling, My wish of us being together forever seems like it’ll come true. I know the future isn’t clear and the past might be sad, But don’t worry anymore. Just keep adding days like this. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I only have plans filled with you, I think it’s perfect. In my heart, my dreams were possible through you, I want to fulfill them all with you. I’m not alone, I’m with you, When I needed someone, you came to me. Even in the ordinary, I celebrate your preciousness, Please always stay by my side.

I want to give you gift-like days, you and me, me and you baby. Without leaving behind a single day, it’s only us. Like candlelight that never goes out, My wish of us being together forever seems like it’ll come true.

June 5, 2020

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’ve practically given up trying to make your whereabouts known to the boys, though they continued to speak to you as they estimated your location and if you were even present in the same room or not.

You wanted to tell Haechan how much you loved the song he wrote, but you were unable to. You wanted to do something for his birthday but you barely had enough strength to walk yourself from the balcony back into his room.

For the first time within the last four years of your existence, you felt tired. You had forgotten this feeling, what it was like to be tired and suddenly you remembered when all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

It was late already, the digital clock on Haechan’s desk reading 11:48pm as he stepped out from the bathroom, freshly showered. You eyed him, wanting to get up and kiss him all over, to give him the same love he gave to you, and you felt so helpless when you knew you wouldn’t be able to.

He lay down in his bed with his hair still slightly wet. “Can you believe it’s already been a whole year since we first moved in?” He turned his head, guessing at where your face was but returning his gaze to the ceiling to not make you feel bad before continuing on. “I never would’ve believed in ghosts if I hadn’t met you but now I’m always gonna think all ghosts are as sweet as you and that’s not good,” he said as he let out a laugh at the end, “I’m going to get myself killed if I try talking to a ghost that isn’t as kind and loving as you.”

Haechan went silent for a bit before continuing on. “But you would never let that happen right? You’ll be my angel watching down on me from above,” he paused as a sly smile appeared on his face, “or you’ll be my little demon waiting for me in hell.” He snicked to himself at his joke. “Ah, you’re probably trying to hit me right now. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself.” And with that, he slapped his own cheek before telling you “I really love you and I hope you know that.”

June 6, 2020

As soon as the clock’s display changed to 12:00am, Haechan’s door burst open, revealing the other three boys with party hats atop their heads as they carried in a small cake with two candles on it, showing his new age of twenty. They began singing happy birthday and you even sang along with them, clapping your hands to the beat, even if they couldn’t hear you.

“Make a wish!” Renjun exclaimed once the song was over.

Haechan clasped his hands together as he closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Y/n, I know you’re still here. Before you go, please do this one last time for me.” He reopened his eyes and looked over at where he assumed you were and gestured towards the cake. You felt your heart swell with love as you took a final glance at him before using all your remaining energy to blow out the candle.

When the flame of the candle went out, so did your view of the world. Everything faded to black as your fire was extinguished, letting you rest in peace as Haechan’s candlelight.

A/N - as always, credit goes to @soleilhyuck​ for coming up with the idea for this fic. thank you for patiently waiting and giving lots of love to this series and please look forward to frat boy!yuta next month as well <3

[harley-sunday]

A Good Man Goes to War [01]

Summary: Starts right after Civil War. Steve Rogers is done being Captain America and quite happy living a quiet life in a safe house somewhere in Canada. Until Thanos goes after the Infinity Stones. What happens when a good man goes to war? 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC (f) but could be read as reader insert.

Warnings: Minor language.

Word count: 4.5k-ish

Entry for @browngirlmagic​‘s writing challenge.  My prompt was “Demons run when a good man goes to war.”

AN: By now you all know I need validation, hence the quick update. Like I said before, this is unlike anything I’ve ever written before, so please let me know what you think. It’s kind of scary to put this out there ♥

I don’t do taglists, but if you follow Harley Sunday x Steve Rogers you should see any update I post.

Masterlist

He sleeps for most of the first couple of days he’s there, as if his body and mind finally allow him to catch up on all those hours of sleep he’s missed over the years. When he is awake he always finds a fresh glass of water and a plate of sandwiches on his bedside table, which he is grateful for because even though he is still so tired, he is also quite hungry. As he eats, he listens for her from his bedroom, more often than not hearing her quietly humming along to whatever song is playing on the sound system while she busies herself downstairs. 

It is on day five that he finally wakes up feeling well rested, but when he sees himself in the mirror in the bathroom they share he has to do a double take because his beard has taken over half his face and he almost doesn’t recognize himself. Still, he keeps it, only trimming the edges. The shower is nice and hot and he comes out of it feeling ten times better. He puts on a pair of dark blue jeans and pairs it with a flannel button down shirt that seems appropriate in this setting.

He finds her in the kitchen, kneading some dough that he hopes will get turned into more of that fabulous homemade bread. “Hey,”

“Well, hello Sleeping Beauty,” she says from over her shoulder, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she smiles.

“Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest at the base of his neck, “sorry about that.”

She tuts, shaking her head, “Please. After what you’ve been through I didn’t expect you back in the land of the living for at least another day or two.” 

“So you know then?”

“It was in the file Nick sent over after he made the call,” she replies almost apologetically. Then, as though she wants to change the subject, “There’s fresh coffee in the pot.”

“You’re the best,” he says with a grin, realizing he actually means it. He wraps both his hand around the mug after he’s poured the coffee, leaning against the counter to her right, watching her as she kneads, and kneads, and kneads. She makes it looks effortless, but he’s sure he’d be able to mess it up if he ever gave it a try. His eyes travel across the kitchen and the living room and he finds more and more evidence of ultra modern technology he hadn’t seen when he first got here. He figures that even though it might look like a simple log cabin from the outside, it is probably decked out with the latest technology on the inside, which, no doubt, is a requirement for a safe house. 

“So, I assume you have some questions?” She gives the dough a final fold before she picks it up and carefully drops it into a bread basket. She washes her hands and dries them off on the towel hanging over her shoulder before she helps herself to a cup of coffee and gestures towards the living room, “Let’s sit down.”

He finds himself pulling out a chair at the dining table, sitting opposite of her, realizing then that yes, he actually does have some questions. Which is strange because he always thought it would be the other way around. But she mentioned a file from Nick earlier, and if one thing, those always tend to be very detailed. He allows himself to really look at her then, instead of those quick glances he kept stealing on the way from the airport. She has kind face, there’s no doubt about it, but there’s also something else there, something he recognizes as sadness and he wonders what her story is. That’s not for now though, he decides.

“Don’t be shy,” she challenges him from across the table, a mischievous grin playing around on her lips.

“Ok,” he starts, “This is your cabin, right?”

“Yes,”

“Right,” he replies. “Please don’t be offended, but-”

“You want to know if I’m going to be here all the time or if I’m actually going to leave you alone at some point?”

“Well,” he sighs then because she seems to have read his mind. “Yeah.” 

She laughs, “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She looks around the room, “The cabin and I, we’re kind of a package deal.”

“That’s fine,” he’s quick to reassure her. “I’ve been on my own long enough, I quite like having someone around.”

“Good,” she says before she fishes a piece of paper from the pocket of her apron and slides it towards him. “Chores are another part of the deal I’m afraid-”

“Seems fair,” he quickly assures her. 

“It’s just,” she starts, smiling, “you could probably chop more firewood in an hour than I could in a day so it would just be a waste of resources if I didn’t let you do that.” Her finger taps the second line then, “I will make breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but in return you’re in charge of the dishes and taking out the garbage.”

He smiles, “No problem.”

“The last one isn’t really essential,” she clears her throat, “but  uh, I’ve already killed so many of them that I’m now putting each and every one that is still here into your care.” 

“How?”

“I don’t know,” she sounds defeated, “I’m just not good at keeping things alive, ok?” She must realize what she’s just said then, because she buries her face in her hands, “Oh God, that came out wrong, because I’m sure I’ll be able to keep you alive.”

“You’d be surprised,” he mutters quitely.

She hasn’t heard because she shakes her head and continues, “It’s just plants I have a problem with.”

He puts one of his hands over hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze, “It’ll be fine.” 

They settle into an easy rhythm after that, where he’s the one who wakes up early and makes sure to get the coffee going before she joins him downstairs about an hour later. Breakfast then, after which she’s in the kitchen to either make bread, pickle vegetables, or make jam from a variety of berries she finds somewhere deep in the forest, only stopping to make them lunch. He’s outside most of the mornings, chopping firewood, making sure the wood’s properly stacked alongside the cabin, and that there’s enough to last them through most of the winter. He usually tends to her vegetable garden after lunch, even though surprisingly enough she’s been able to keep most of her crops alive so far. 

They go into town about once a week, on Wednesdays, when there’s a farmer’s market, a trip that takes them most of the day and so they treat themselves to lunch at the Thirsty Moose bar, where he takes a special liking to their Philly Cheese Steak Poutine. She tells him she always treats herself to fresh flowers when she’s at the market and so every Wednesday night there’s a new arrangement adorning the dining table. He’s decided he likes it. 

The evenings are spent on the porch, catching the last rays of sunshine after dinner, quietly talking about anything and everything, but nothing too serious yet. They are getting to know each other more day by day and he quite likes that there’s still somewhat of a mystery about her. When it gets too cold they head inside, where she makes them both a hot chocolate that they finish on the couch. He almost always goes to bed first, while she stays up late, reading books about whatever topic holds her interest at that moment. He has seen her scribble little notes in the margins of the pages, and he doesn’t know why, but it makes him like her even more. 

She surprises him with a variety of cupcakes on his birthday, which happens to be exactly two weeks after he’s arrived here. There’s also a gift, and he finds himself a little speechless when he unwraps a beautiful handmade axe, which is amazingly balanced. She tells him he’s been using her lightweight axe, and that this seems to fit him much better. He agrees wholeheartedly. 

She’s put a birthday candle into the strawberry cupcake, telling him he has to make a wish, even though he argues he’s technically ninety-eight and might be too much of a grown up for that. She giggles then, tells him he looks pretty darn good for his age, before she counters that he’s been put on ice for 66 years and so she thinks they’re actually only celebrating his thirty-second birthday. He can’t really argue with that logic and so he blows out the candle in one go. 

She tries to get him to tell her his wish, but he warns her not to push him or he’ll give up on the plants and at least that gets her to back off a little. 

The wish he’s made on his birthday lasts exactly two months. 

And what a great two months they have been, he reminisces. Summers here are mild, she told him, and she wasn’t wrong. Still, being this far north meant they got plenty of sunshine and the forest offered them an abundance of edible plants and berries, which they collected on what quickly became their regular afternoon walks. He feels comfortable around her, things are easy between them, and so he finds himself opening up to her more and more. 

He tells her about his upbringing in Brooklyn, about Bucky, the war, and how lost he felt without his best friend, both the first and second time he thought he had lost him. He admits easily that it took him a long time to somewhat adjust to this modern society he woke up to after being defrosted, and that he’s still not sure he’ll ever really be a part of it. There’s a lump in his throat when he tells her about what happened to Bucky after he fell from the train, and how he ended up fighting his best friend several times before they were able to help him. 

He’s still angry when he talks about the Accords and what happened after, even though he’s quick to reassure her he’s happy that it made him end up here. More about Bucky then, how this time he got to fight alongside his best friend and how Bucky is now trying to heal with the help of T’Challa and his people in Wakanda. He tries to explain Wakanda to her, but knows he’ll never be able to do it justice and so he promises to take her there some day. 

She just lets him talk, only asking questions when something is unclear to her, and God, it feels good to finally tell someone the whole story, even though he’s sure she already knew most of it from the file Nick Fury sent over. Still, she listens and he talks, and he thinks that maybe his birthday wish is coming true. 

But then, somewhere at the end of summer, she calls out for him, “Steve?”

He hears it in her voice, even though he can’t quite explain what it is, only that it’s not good. He stacks the two pieces of firewood he’s holding and rushes inside, finding her in the kitchen, looking upset. 

She nods towards the living room, “There’s someone here to see you.” 

His heart’s in his throat then, because how did they find him? Does this mean he’s compromised? Should he just make a run for it? No, he thinks, he can’t just leave her here. He turns around, a sigh of relief escaping him when he sees the familiar redhead sitting on the couch.

“Hey, stranger,” she says with a smile.

“Natasha.” He wants to be happy to see her again, really he does, but he knows she’s not just here on a social call and so he asks, “Sam?”

“He’s outside,” she replies with a nod towards the front porch. 

“You can come in,” he says, knowing the comms unit she’s wearing will pick up his voice, and sure enough, Sam comes bursting through the door seconds later.

“Steve, man it is good to see you!” 

He returns the hug, because yes, it is good to see his friends again even though he’s sure what will follow next will make him wish they never showed up. He tells them to take a seat on the front porch, says he will join them in a minute.

Natasha glances over his shoulder with a knowing look, then throws him a wink before she gently pushes Sam outside.

He turns around, “I’m sorry, I had no idea-”

“I know,” she smiles. She holds up the phone he knows only Nick Fury has the number of, “The message came just as they pulled up. I would have told you earlier, but I didn’t-”

“Hey, no,” he takes a few quick steps towards her, hands on her arms. “I’ll go find out what they want ok?”

She nods, biting her lip because he’s sure she knows as well as he does it means he’ll have to leave soon. “I’ll,” her voice catches in her throat, “I’ll get you some coffee.” 

“Thank you.” He lets go of her, but then something makes him go back and kiss the top of her head, “It’ll be alright.”

“Yeah.” 

He joins Natasha and Sam outside then, listens to what they’ve been up to these past weeks, not surprised to learn they’ve gone rogue and are now doing missions on their own. He asks how they found him, but he doesn’t get a straight answer out of either of them, even though he knows they must have contacted Nick. He’s the only one who knows where he is. 

“Cap,” Sam starts once there are three steaming mugs of coffee in front of them. “We need you, man.” He looks at Natasha, but she just nods, and so he continues, “These missions, well, it’s not like they’re super dangerous, but there’s only so much we can do when it’s just the two of us.”

“We’re doing Nick Fury’s dirty work,” Natasha explains, “but it’s work that needs to be done.” And, because she knows him and knows what he’s about to ask next, “It’s not illegal per se, but yes, we are trespassing and taking things that technically don’t belong to us.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Look, Steve,” Natasha puts a hand on his arm, making him look at her, “we wouldn’t be here if it was absolutely necessary.” She explains then, how there are five missions in total, spanning a little over a year, that he’d be gone no more than six weeks at a time, that she and Sam will do all the preparations, that he just has to show up and help them complete the mission. 

“I don’t know.” He sighs, casting a glance over his shoulder, finding her in the kitchen, where she’s trying to knead some bread but he can tell her heart’s not in it. They’ll have to feed it to the birds, he thinks wryly. He looks back at Sam and Natasha, knows they need him too if not more, knows he’ll never be able to forgive himself if something happens to them because he’d rather stay here and ignore the outside world. “I’ll do it,” he says, “but not as Captain America.”

Natasha nods, “That seems fair.”

“So you’re really going rogue with us then?” Sams asks with a grin. “Tell me, man, what should we call you now that you’re not carrying the shield?” 

He thinks about that for a while, but then, because it seems fitting, “Nomad.”

He can tell she’s not happy about it, even though she never says anything. If anything she just becomes more distant, the chatty nights on the porch now spend indoors, with her reading, and reading, and reading, and him waiting until Natasha sends him the mission details on the secure phone she handed him after their visit. It hurts, but he gets why she feels this way, she was meant to keep him safe, after all. He’s tried to explain once, why he choose to go, but she just shook her head and he stopped talking. 

When they go into town together that Wednesday he lets her do the grocery shopping, while he meets up with the guy he’s been in contact with about the bike he has for sale. It’s a Harley Davidson WLA ‘Liberator’ and it reminds him of the bike he used to drive when he was in Europe. After taking it for a test drive and agreeing on the price he’s a little hesitant to show her his purchase, but she just shrugs and tells him it’s a nice looking bike. Small victories, he supposes. 

The message comes a week later, just as he’s done with the dishes for the day, giving him the coordinates to the pickup point where they’ll pick him up with the Quinjet the next morning. His GPS tells him it’s a three hour drive from here and so he’ll have to get up early, meaning he only has one night with her before he has to leave. He tells her about the mission, that this is their last night together for a while and to his surprise she asks if he wants to have a hot chocolate on the porch.

“I’d love to,” he replies, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. It’s already getting dark outside and so he busies himself turning on the two gas lanterns on either end of the porch before lightning the candles on top of the table. 

She joins him not much later, handing him a big mug topped with a generous amount of whipped cream, “Here you go.” 

“Thank you,”

“Listen, I uh,” she sits down on one of the Adirondack chairs and motions for him to do the same. “I’m sorry, about well,” she raises her eyebrows, “this week, I suppose.”

“Honestly, don’t-”

“No,” she shakes her head, “I wasn’t being fair. You don’t have to answer to me about well, anything you do, really.”

“Except the plants,” he says, trying to let her know it’s ok. That he understands.

“Except the plants,” she echoes, smiling. 

“I left the instructions  on the fridge, ok?” 

She nods, “I will follow them to a T.” She looks at him then, “Just be careful, ok? The plants and I’d like to see you back here in one piece.”

“Will do,” 

“Promise me.” Her voice catches in her throat somewhere and she tries to smile but he can tell she’s fighting back tears.

He reaches for her from across the table, his hand on hers as he gives it a little squeeze, “I promise.”

He’s missed her, he realizes now that he’s finally on his way back to her. 

He’s been gone for almost four weeks, the mission somewhere in South America, where the weather was much more forgiving than what he’s dealing with now. The cold wind bites through his gloves and jacket, like little needles pricking in his skin. The signs along the road tell him he’s almost there and so he opens up the throttle, wanting nothing more than to see her again as soon as possible. 

She must have heard his bike coming up the road because she’s waiting for him on the porch, smiling when she sees him pulls up.

He parks the bike at an impossible angle, right in front of the steps leading up to the cabin, but he doesn’t care, because it only means he can get to her quicker. He takes his helmet off as he steps off the bike and hangs it on the handle bars, before he walks up to her and wraps her in his arms, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says from somewhere against his chest, her arms having found their way around him. “I’ve missed you.” 

He lets go of her ever so slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I’ve missed you too.” 

She looks up at him, “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” he nods, “I am now.”

“Come on,” she lets go of him and takes one of his hands in hers, “let’s get you inside.” She leads him to the kitchen, where she examens him carefully, her brows furrowed when she sees he’s got several cuts on his face.

“It’s nothing,” he assures her, but then her fingers ghost over the cut above his brow and he winces, because he took a pretty hard blow there just this morning, the skin still tender. 

She tuts, “Go take a shower. I’ll take care of that once you’re done.”

“It’ll be healed by tomorrow,” he counters. “The serum, remember?”

“Yeah, well, humor me.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest then, “Upstairs. Shower. Now.”

He does as he’s told, the warm water actually making him feel a bit more human. He puts on a pair of sweatpants she bought for him on one of their trips into town, claiming you can’t really relax in a pair of jeans when he told her he didn’t have any other pants. He grabs a t-shirt from out of his closet, not bothering to put it on because he knows she’ll want to see if there are any other cuts and bruises that need her attention.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters quietly when he makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. She lets her eyes travel across his chest before she looks up at him, “Are you even real or?”

He chuckles and shrugs, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs. 

Standing in front of him she hands him the first aid kit, her fingers once again examining his skin, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees most of the cuts are starting to heal already. “You really weren’t kidding,” she whispers.

His eyes find hers and he shakes his head, “Nope.” 

Something that looks like relief flashes across her eyes then, but she hides it by telling him to put his shirt on and handing him a cup of hot chocolate.

Natasha already warned him that the next mission would start soon, but he never thought he’d only get four days of rest before they’d ask him to head out again. The mission brief suggests a short trip, two weeks tops, but he knows from experience that’s way too optimistic. At least the pickup point is closer this time, only a two-hour drive from the cabin and they won’t pick him up until late tomorrow afternoon so at least he still gets to spend some time with her. And the plants that have been in her care the past four weeks.

“You know what?” He can’t help but smile when he examines her work, “I’m not mad about this.”

“No?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “you really did a great job.”

“So they’re fine?” 

“More than, I’d say.” He turns towards her, a little thrown of by the mischief in her eyes. “What?”

“Even that one?” She points to one of the succulents in the windowsill, and he can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face.

He looks closer and laughs then, “It got smaller.”

She giggles, “It got replaced.” She throws her hands up in defense then, “I don’t know what happened, one day he was fine and the next-” she makes a face, “-dead.” 

“Uhu,”

“Steve, I promise, I did everything you told me to do.” 

He throws an arm around her shoulder then, pulling her close, “You can’t keep buying new plants every time one dies.”

She scoffs, “I’ve been doing it for years.”

He was right about the second mission, they were gone a little over six weeks and by the time he gets back the forest is covered in a thin layer of snow and so he has to park his bike on the side of the house, next to where’s he stacked to firewood. He finds her on the porch, like the last time, and she throws her arms around him as he pulls her into a hug.

“I thought you were never coming back,” she says quietly.

“I know,” 

“Let’s go inside,” 

He takes her outstretched hand and follows her into the cabin, the warm glow of the fireplace welcoming him back. Like last time, she examines him closely, but he came out pretty unscatched and so she’s quick to tell him to go take a shower. She asks if he is hungry when he’s halfway up the stairs, and when he tells her he is, she sets out to make him a quick dinner of some leftover she finds in the fridge. 

She allows him to eat his dinner on the couch, which she’s never done before, but she must see how tired he is. This mission was a waiting game more than anything else, long days spent trying to gather as much intell as possible before moving in to secure what they came for. 

“I really missed you,” she says suddenly, and when he looks at her he finds her eyes a little glossed over. “I never felt lonely here before, but this time, I don’t know,” she tries to smile, and he can tell she’s trying not to make too much of a big deal out of it. 

He puts his plate down on the coffee table and motions for her to come closer, wrapping his arm around her once she’s snuggled up to him, “I really missed you too.”

[okay-j-hannah]

Many Questions

Harry Potter : Fic

Fred x Reader

Word Count: 2018

Warnings: More and more angst... Fred has a bad encounter with Death Eaters... reader has the feels :) enjoy

A/N: Regaining consciousness isn’t as great as it sounds as you witness Fred, the person you finally realize you love, switch places with you as the victim of the fight

Here’s a link to

Part 1: Many Battles 

Part 3: Many Returns

Author’s Note: I had a few people ask for a part 2 so I came up with this :) please enjoy! @lostgirl677  @fallingforhumanity

Finally (Y/N) seemed to come to. She strained to open her eyes and immediately felt a stabbing pain at her temple. Her head felt like a ton of bricks as she tried to lift it from the dust and bits of stone on the floor.

As her vision began to clear, she noticed that no one was in the corridor anymore. That included Fred.

She tried to get to her feet as she began to remember what had happened right before she was knocked out. Fred had just confessed to her how he had felt all these years. She needed to get to him.

Fred liked her. He really liked her.

She seemed entirely and utterly confused. Sure she liked Fred, but as friends. She’s never considered anything else between them.

Although, it would explain a lot. Like how his ears would always get red when she touched him. How he would gaze at her during conversations with a group of people around. How he would always ask her for help at Quidditch or homework first before anyone else.

She did love spending time with him and always got excited when he entered a room. He always knew how to make her laugh. Always knew how to cheer her up when she was sad.

Come to think of it, she really couldn’t think of a life without Fred Weasley there. His whole family took her in and loved her. 

Making her way down another corridor, she made sure her wand was at the ready. 

Suddenly, she stopped, looking out another blasted hole in the wall to see some Death Eaters exploding the stone of the castle. Soon another explosion crashed and the wall and ceiling in front of her crumbled to the ground.

She began to dodge falling rock and the blinding dust to follow the Death Eaters and stop them from destroying more of the castle.

Running down the corridor, she came to a sudden halt at the start of one. At the end she saw Fred and Percy. They were attacking a few Death Eaters, shooting and casting spells. They seemed to be enjoying it, smiles on both of their faces.

A smile grew on her face as she came closer to him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted those same Death Eaters aiming at the castle wall, right where Fred and Percy were dueling.

Terror ripped at (Y/N)’s insides as she yelled out to them, trying to get their attention.

“FRED! FRED YOU NEED TO MOVE BEFORE THE…”

“You’re joking Perce! You actually are joking…. I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were-“

But then the Death Eaters all threw the same spell at the wall and it exploded into a thousand pieces, right onto Fred.

All (Y/N) managed out was a soft, “No,” before she ran as fast as she could right towards Fred.

After what felt like an eternity, she found him lying on the ground. Percy was yelling.

“No! Fred! No!” And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron appeared, kneeling beside them, and Fred’s eyes were shut peacefully.

(Y/N) fell to her knees, her whole body limp.

In that exact moment, right then and there, she knew. She felt it in her heart. She knew she wouldn’t be able to live without him. 

Seeing him lying there, she knew that she truly did love him back. That he was her everything. His jokes making her laugh. His smile making her day. His touch giving her chills.

Tears filled her eyes and her face contorted as she slowly lifted a numb hand and rested it on Fred’s arm.

The tears fell onto her cheeks and a quiet sob left her as a pain like nothing she imagined went through her. So this is what she’d been feeling all this time. The emotions that had been building since day one. It was love.

And right this second it was it being ripped from her.

Then suddenly, Percy went silent and lifted his head quickly, looking into Fred’s still face.

“He’s alive,” he said quietly.

(Y/N) stopped her sobbing and looked up with red eyes, “He’s what?”

Percy checked Fred’s pulse and sighed in relief, “He has a heartbeat. He’s alive,” he grinned.

(Y/N) was in hysteria, half crying half laughing. She grabbed Percy around the neck and kissed him on the cheek. That didn’t seem to faze Percy in the slightest as he tried to rally some people to help him lift his brother and carry him to the Great Hall, which was acting as a Hospital Wing.

The war was now on stand-by and everyone was tending to the wounded and mourning the dead in the Great Hall.

The Weasley family was gathered around a stretcher with Fred laying on it. Many of their friends were lying around them, not as lucky as Fred. Lupin and Tonks were on their own stretchers, side by side, their lifeless hands touching by their fingertips.

(Y/N) had made her way towards the family, where she was greeted like one of their own. George was right next to his twin, shock and tears in his eyes as he kept one hand in his brothers. Mrs. Weasley was stroking Fred’s hair and (Y/N) went over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Mrs. Weasley whipped her eyes her and gasped, “(Y/N), dear. Oh thank goodness,” she wrapped her in a hug then cupped her face. “We’ve been so worried. All Fred’s been murmuring is your name.”

(Y/N) then nodded and fell onto Fred’s chest. She clutched at his shirt and cried - everyone letting new tears fall onto their cheeks as they watched this girl cry over her best friend.

She concentrated on the steady thumping of Fred’s heart. She listened through her sobs. The beating was soft and quiet. She longed for that noise. She needed to hear it continuously. As long as she did, he was safe.

~~~

It was now three days after the Battle of Hogwarts. Everything was in chaos still.

One of the most needed locations currently was St. Mungo’s and after the Battle, people were in need of medical attention more than ever.

This was no exception to the Weasley family. Fred was still unconscious, though he was still breathing fine and his condition didn’t seem to be deteriorating.

Due to the destruction and duels that happened at St. Mungo’s during Voldemort’s reign, there were multiple precautions to consider. The waiting room was now almost always packed to the door. People couldn’t wait outside and down the street because the hospital was right in the middle of a Muggle community.

The Ministry devised a plan to alert people to portkey’s whenever there was more space in the waiting room. It was moving along slowly, but people were getting the medical attention they needed. 

There was also a one accompaniment limit considering the number of people requiring attention. Everyone agreed that Mr. Weasley was the man of the household and the one who’d take information the most calmly.

(Y/N) would have been more than happy to take Fred to St. Mungo’s, but currently she was in a dilemma. No one knew that she actually loved him and that he loved her back. It was eating up inside of her, not telling anybody about the feelings that she’d been having towards him turned out to be love.

Currently, Mr. Weasley had taken Fred to St. Mungo’s. The family was anxiously waiting around the living room and kitchen. Percy and Charlie were at the Ministry, helping with whatever they could. George had shut himself up in his room; he had been a nervous wreck.

“How’s Harry doing?” (Y/N) asked, trying to keep conversation going. 

“He’s still at Grimmauld Place, probably thinking about what he’s going to do now,” Ron answered.

Mrs. Weasley came in with a plate of sandwiches, “He deserves it, the poor dear. He’s been through enough as it is.”

“I heard Andromeda say that Teddy was doing fine,” Hermione added, “He won’t stop changing his hair color though.”

That made a few people smile; Teddy was one of the only things that still seemed pure and innocent in all of the chaos. The loss of his parents took a toll on everyone, but Teddy and Andromeda seemed to bring some light to the tension.

The silence was still lingering and there wasn’t much people wanted to say. 

(Y/N) sighed as she reached for one of the sandwiches Mrs. Weasley had prepared. She was completely lost in thought and wasn’t sure what the conversation was in the room. She caught one saying something about Hogwarts.

“You know McGonagall will be the new Headmistress of Hogwarts?” Hermione said.

“Better her than Snape,” Ginny replied. Ron and Hermione gave her a skeptical look.

(Y/N) had the suspicion that they knew something that everyone else didn’t, “She’ll be able to put everything back into shape. Ever since she stood up to that Umbridge woman I believe she can do anything.”

This was followed by many nods of approval and giggles. It made (Y/N) think back to what Fred had said to her at the Battle. How he realized that he really did love her after a detention she had had with Umbridge.

Looking back on it now, (Y/N) saw how that would be a moment for Fred. She remembered how his heart seemed to be beating a bit fast, she blamed it on how angry he was at Umbridge. She also remembered the blush on his face that never appeared on George’s.

Snapping out of her dazed stare, she heard Mrs. Weasley squeal, “He’s coming home, Arthur’s coming!”

The whole family snapped their eyes to the clock in the room. It had seven hands, and each one had the face of one of the Weasley family members.

Mr. Weasley’s hand was on traveling and was moving towards home.

Fred’s hand was on mortal peril.

With a pop there was a noise coming from outside the back door. Mr. Weasley came walking into the living room, his shoulders slumped and his arms limp at his sides. Just by looking at his face you knew something was wrong. He refused to lift his head until he was comfortably sitting on the couch.

Mrs. Weasley ran to his side and grasped his hand. (Y/N) stood and stared at him, not daring to make a move. She held her breath and listened to the sound of her own thumping heart.

George peeked his head from upstairs and upon seeing his father he came dashing the rest of the way down and into the room.

“What’s wrong Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley pleaded looking into his eyes, “What’s wrong with our boy?”

Mr. Weasley looked as if he was about to deliver horrendous news. That wasn’t far from the truth.

“The healers aren’t sure what is exactly wrong with him,” he gulped and rubbed his forehead. “He’s been hit with extreme Dark Magic, most likely from the spell that destroyed the castle walls.”

There was a pause in which George spoke. His voice sounded tired and strained, “Will he get better?”

Those were the first words he had said in days.

Mr. Weasley looked at him dead in the eyes and replied, “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Weasley, along with Ginny and Hermione, gasped. (Y/N) felt a sting in her eyes and found that tears were filling them.

“Because of being hit with Dark Magic, nothing the healers do is affecting him. Much to like how George can’t fix his ear, Fred won’t wake up,” He rubbed his hands over his legs. “It doesn’t seem to be worsening his condition any further, for now. The healers are monitoring him and will alert us if anything changes.”

“You mean we just have to sit here?” George asked, “And wait to see if he lives or dies?”

His voice sounded hurt when Mr. Weasley replied, “There’s nothing else we can do.”

(Y/N) couldn’t imagine what George was feeling at the moment, but she knew she was close. 

~~~

Buy Me a Coffee?

[deborahaphillips54303]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[cyberpoetryballoon]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[carolrhackett85282]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[melodymgill49801]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[carolinechanson97838]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network

[latoyajkelson70506]

Cooking on Zoom Helps My Family Cope With Grief

Everyone has a different starting point for when this year went south. Some might look to the day their favorite sports league canceled its upcoming season. Others might remember the day their employer sent them to work from home indefinitely, which for VICE employees, was March 9. It’s nearly universal that people half-jokingly pinpoint a moment in 2020 that the world started ending, and everything changed irreversibly.

My starting point came a little earlier than that, on January 31, 2020, the day my aunt Jeanette died suddenly in her home in Sugarland, Texas. A central part of our family's world ended that day. Her death feels like the only thing to happen this year besides Black Lives Matter protests and a pandemic that, so far, has resulted in over 155,700 deaths in the U.S.

On March 1, I found myself at SFO around 10 p.m., waiting to board a flight back to New York after attending my aunt’s memorial service in the Bay Area, a small gathering at a restaurant in Oakland for family and friends who weren’t able to attend the funeral in Texas. The TV at our gate was tuned into CNN, and the chyron said something about a virus. I didn't pay it much attention, and then I sat in my middle seat and passed out, mouth agape, for the majority of the redeye. In retrospect, this seems like extremely risky behavior; If I had known what I know now, I would have worn a mask and paid extra not to sit in the middle seat.

Jeanette was a matriarchal figure in our family, a successful small business owner, teacher, and a licensed professional counselor. Her faith was extremely important to her, and she always took pride in her family and friends, continuously stressing the importance of staying in contact, even if you weren’t physically together. This was a challenge for a family that originated in India but then scattered across the United States.

She was also an excellent cook. In the 90s, along with her sister, Annabelle, she opened a successful deli-bistro in California called Amelia's. The deli introduced Indian ingredients like tandoori chicken and chutney to Bay Area staples like Dutch Crunch bread. At the time, these were more radical concepts than they are now. But even then, tech workers flooded in to enjoy them before heading back to their large beige computers. (The first Amelia's was near a Sun Microsystems office.)

On the few occasions I visited Amelia's as a kid, the order would always go the same way. I'd ask for a BLT, and my Aunty Jeanette would suggest I try something less boring. There were great options, she'd tell me, like the tandoori chicken or salted tongue sandwich. I'd refuse and get a BLT anyway,  taking some comfort in knowing my little sister would order a "BLT without bacon."

My palate became more adventurous later on. On any trip to visit Jeanette, we could return on a plane with an immaculately packed beef tongue sandwich, if requested. Her banana bread was so good and treasured in our family, a valuable commodity wrapped in a tin foil brick, that I became confused later on when I found other people treated this delicacy as a way to salvage bad bananas.

Shortly after the funeral, Jeanette's husband, Sri, spun up a WhatsApp group to ensure our family stayed close as we returned to our various corners of the world. Eventually, we began to have weekly Sunday Zoom calls. At first, these calls were an extension of her memorial. We shared our favorite stories and made tentative plans of when we'd get together again—plans that have since been rescheduled because of COVID constraints.

Then we pivoted our calls to jointly prepare some of her most popular recipes, brainstorming in our WhatsApp group what to cook the following Sunday. My uncle John would share a recipe with a veg and non-veg option, and everyone would log into the call on Sunday, with their mise en place, ready to cook. The weekly call is now complete with a Spotify playlist and cocktail pairing. We are also currently in the process of collecting Jeanette's recipes to make a cookbook that will also double as a memorial for her; there are the hits from Amelia's Deli, such as the Dutch Crunch bread and tandoori chicken; Indian classics like chana masala and shrimp curry; and miscellaneous hits like her American chop suey. One must-make dish that we have not collectively conquered is sorpotel; the simmered pork masala is a top-tier breakfast dish alongside a fried egg and fresh roll, and it was one of Jeanette's most requested dishes.

Our family is like a closed-circuit Indian Food Channel, one that I can directly relate to much more than any recent Indian reality show on Netflix. Together we prepare other family favorite dishes, like potato chops, a dish my late grandmother (Jeanette's mother) made from mashed potato cutlets stuffed with minced beef (or vegetables.) This prep-intensive dish, that many of us avoided for its inconvenience, we now did with intent, even happiness.

The weekly cooking meetings, attended by family in California, Washington, Texas, D.C., Indiana, Connecticut, New York, and Mumbai, are a way to connect with a purpose. The discussion varies, from the week's national news and the local happenings in our respective neighborhoods. We celebrate recent birthdays, and the babies on the call will beam into the camera, or growl like a tiger, or even assist with food preparation.

The process of putting together such a book is much more complicated than I'd imagined: from sorting through dozens of recipes, using a combination of shared drives, documents, and spreadsheets; thinking through the physical layout of each page, and finding a supplier to print an actual book. How do you organize the recipes? Who will cook what? Does everyone have a phone capable of good food photography? How widely do we share such a book? There's an instinct to keep at least some recipes within our circle, but I'm not sure if we're all on board there. I'll have to bring it up on a future call.

In the absence of being able to physically see most of my family, these messages and Zoom calls provide some sense of closeness and purpose.

I look forward to our Sunday cooking sessions, which provide a sense of closeness in the absence of being able to physically see each other. The weekly Zoom is the one constant and recurring event that I can count on, knowing I will enjoy it, and that there will be a delicious result on the other side. When I've been able to share a Sunday dish with a friend, or another family member, there’s a real feeling that we're honoring Jeanette. Her chutney was a hit with my girlfriend's mom, and a friend enjoyed the potato chops at a socially distant park hangout in Brooklyn.

I don't endorse using Zoom, it's simply the path of least resistance to get on the horn with a dozen or so family members. It’s one of the cases where I throw up my hands and let the riptide of convenience pull me into an ocean of compromised privacy. My dad, who is Jeanette's younger brother, told me he was sad that we had not done these Zoom cooking sessions when Jeanette was alive, as it was the exact type of thing she'd love to be part of. She loved cooking, being organized, and chatting with our family, and this activity requires all three.

My aunt meant a lot to me, but there are other people in my family for which this loss is indescribably much worse, and it’s something that feels callous to say, but weird to omit. My dad spoke to her nearly every night on his drive home from work; the loss her husband and two children feel is one I can't know. But my aunt made it a point to tell us all repeatedly how important it was to be together, and how much she enjoyed it when we were together. If I was taking a trip to visit her daughter in the Bay or her son in Seattle, she'd say how happy we were going to be together, even when she was not going to be there herself. And I'd joke that I felt like I was getting credit for doing something I wanted to do already. And as I look forward to next Sunday, there is a small joy in knowing she'd be happy we're cooking together.

via VICE US - undefined US VICE US - undefined US via Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network Mom's Kitchen Recipe Network