The Titanic themed gastronomic dinner that took months of preparations has finally happened.
and it was an absolute BLAST.
I never had this much fun during an evening in a long time ~
I am so glad everything went smoothly and according to plan ( aside a thing or two but everything ended up going very very well ~ )
Everyone were so nicely dressed, everyone put a lot of effort into their costumes ( We even had an Iceberg and the freaking door , we laughed so much! ) and the food was just Divine~ ( I planned a menu inspired by what was served on the ship ~ )
Our official photographer is processing the photos he took there, so I am just posting what I took with my phone for now ~ but the official photos will be posted later ~ ( for they are MUCH MUUUUCH better quality ahah )
I even got a host-gift of a “ Titanic beer”. Flawless ~
Hello!! So … before we get to it, here’s my explanation of what I’m up to with re: quest. So far, I’ve been BURIED in school and, as far as translations go, have mainly been chipping away at outlines/summaries as well as my tagging system to make things as convenient for you guys as I can. But, at the same time, I thought I should give you some kind of content to get the ball rolling! So I spent all day yesterday and today fleshing out my translation for Part 1 of Chapter 4, “Sponse” (I’m pretty close with the rest of the chapter too – just have lotsa editing to do). This chapter is about Hori Chie and Tsukiyama Shuu and is very cute (happy birthday the other day, 2/25, to Hori, btw!!)♥
About my tagging system and overall formatting: so far, my links for desktop are all set. This post will have Part 1 of the chapter in full under the cut (mainly for mobile users). While posts like this will have as much content as I can include in them, I’ll be using posts primarily as way of announcement for updates. All of the translation content will be on my blog’s Quest Navigation Page, which can also be accessed through my translations page on the main navbar (I am aware that these links don’t work for mobile – that’s why I’ll try to put as much content as I can in posts. The issue is that I can’t guarantee content in posts will stay available). Finally, a disclaimer: I’d encourage anyone invested in the Tokyo Ghoul series to buy the official copies of this light novel and its official translations when they are released in your area to support the authors and publishers.
Thank you everyone for your patience andplease please please, don’t hesitate to send me corrections/suggestions/asks and messages about this project! It’s a big work in progress, and there will definitely be some mess-ups on my part, but my hope is that we can all enjoy some more of Quest. It’s pretty awesome. – koko♥
Chapter 4: Sponse Part 1 TL: As we all know and love, occasionally Tsukiyama throws in English or French words when he’s talking. Anything he says that’s written in Roman letters in the original Japanese text, I will both italicize and underline. All other emphatic markings only for conveying their own regular emphasis.
“Alright, now take a picture, of me!”
“Nahh,” Hori replied, and the conversation was over in 3 seconds. She
was watching through the coffee shop’s big windows at the shopping
street where people came and went, housewives buying things for dinner
and hoisting bulky eco-bags on their shoulders. Hori looked like an
uncomfortable elementary school student in the chic and relaxed coffee
shop where she sat. However, inside, she was already at the level of a
college student. Well, actually, she almost never went to college, as
she roamed from east to west as a “free camera-man” with her camera, her
one hobby, always by her side.
This Is The Earliest Known Reference To “Gumbo” And Is Found In The Interrogation Records Of A Slave, New Orleans, September 1764
The Creole Cookery Book, published by the Christian Woman’s Exchange of New Orleans in 1885, calls gumbo making an “occult science” that “should be allowed its proper place in the gastronomical world.”
A dish that originated in southern Louisiana from the Louisiana Creole people during the 18th century. It typically consists primarily of a strongly flavored stock, okra, meat or shellfish, a thickener, and seasoning vegetables, which can include celery, bell peppers and onions.
According to one suggestion, gumbo is a reinterpretation of traditional African cooking. West Africans used the vegetable okra as a base for many dishes, including soups, often pairing okra with meat and shrimp, with salt and pepper as seasonings. In Louisiana, the dish was modified to include ingredients introduced by other cultural groups. Surviving records indicate that by 1764, African slaves in New Orleans mixed cooked okra with rice to make a meal.
A more familiar version of the dish was described in an 1879 cookbook by Marion Cabell Tyree. Her Housekeeping in Old Virginia described “Gumbo Filit A La Creole”, a filé-based gumbo with chicken and oysters and spiced with allspice, cloves, red and black pepper, parsley, and thyme. The 1881 cookbook What Mrs. Fisher Knows About Old Southern Cooking, dictated by former slave Abby Fisher, contained three gumbo recipes. “Oyster Gumbo Soup” used a filé base, while “Ochra Gumbo” and “Chicken Gumbo” used okra as a base. Four years later, the cookbook La Cuisine Creole documented eight varieties of gumbo. None used sausage, but almost all of them contained ham.
Alyn Crawford - you take in a deep breath and know his skin smells of freshly ground grains, flour, the crispness of newly chopped wood. Bread baked in a giant stone oven; the ticklish sensation of sugar and powder on the tip of your nose. Kneading. Crafting. The consistent patience of rolling of dough. It is the comfort of spices swirling into gastronomic harmony, of warm soups and hearty meals, of laughter by the fire and communal spirit and the tenderness that comes with family. You take in another breath and - There is steel and gunpowder and mud and wiremesh; the stench of sweat; of thundering onward and constant pushing to pierce front lines. Chaos. There is running and shouting and desparate need to win - or to save a life - there isn’t much difference now. You can hear roars of artillery, of everlasting marches and screaming, of souls taken apart by violence and blood (- there is just so much blood)
Leo Crawford - you take in a deep breath and know his skin smells of pages upon pages upon pages of knowledge; new and worn and yellowed and earmarked, and somewhat torn because he was reading too fast and wanted to know what happened next. His is the smell of books: leather-bound, hardbound, paperback, pages held inside a ziplock bag because he dropped it in the bath once. Encyclopedias, codals, annotated texts, forgotten tomes with hidden knowledge and secrets whispered from the gods. You take in another breath and - A hundred bodies shouting at the same time, screaming over one another, a battle of interests and bottom-lines, of insurmountable pride and extreme prejudice. It is the crushing weight of responsibility. You hear the pounding of the gavel and calling people into order but the voice is lost in the cacophony of ideals and principles and money being exchanged by well-meaning hands and well-meaning looks and (how dare you betray your family like this)
Louis Howard - you take in a deep breath and know his skin is dozens of perfumes and fragrances, of flowers in full bloom: dandelions, orchids, and yawning hibiscus and lush bougainvilleas, of woodlands and barks, of afternoons by the lake and its stillness. His is the scent of adoration and delicacy, of holding on to dreams, tempered - but only ever so slightly - of realism and practicality. His is efficiency and managements but with the tenderest of hearts. You take in another breath and - A musty bedroom, old and sagging wood, metal bars and grime coated windows; soot and dust - so much undisturbed dust - blanketing untouched linen, the bed, the room, the house. Cobwebs serve as curtains and each door creaks the way a child would but the crib had long been empty and the house long abandoned and forgotten and discarded and (you don’t know what being left alone feels like)
Giles Christophe - you take in a deep breath and know his skin is a coating of pastries and cinnamon and the sweetest powdered things sprinkled generously on confectionaries. It is fountains of chocolate, of stacked sugary delicacies that make you cringe in delight, and the slow dripping of honey from the tip of your tongue. It is soft cushions and even softer beds. You take in another breath and - Melted wax stamped on proclamation and decrees, of harsh words and harsher laws, of meetings held in the middle of the night and the unshakeable feeling of being constantly watched, hairs on the back of your neck standing on the end. It is ambition and hunger and power that comes with negotiating with a knife to your throat - only you can’t see it just yet. Plots, entrapments, and hidden machinations, of secrets sealed with loyalty or fear and (you thought I would never amount to more than this)
Byron Wagner - you take in a deep breath and you smell ink and parchment, hear them being shuffled into order, given and signed and taken away, a constant flurry of things done and to be done. It is the burning candles late into the wee hours of breaking dawn, of hands guiding you and teaching you the way of things. It is cool summer nights spent dreaming upon the stars; it is musk and privilege, silk sheets and luxury. A firm voice telling you it knows better things. You take in another breath and - The smell of almost rotting meat and flies; nature having its way with untended wounds. The stench of blood, spilled and pooling, and bodies dragged across stone slabs, of chains clasping against gasping throats, of panic and fear. It is submission, of opening yourself up entirely unto forces you cannot comprehend. You hear the gross sobbing and spilling of tears and drool, and absolute compliance to the haunting of ghosts, or else lose whatever it puny thing it is that you cling on and (I have no use for you now)
Albert Bruckhardt - you take in a deep breath and you smell fabric and cotton and tailored suits, and ever so faintly the smell of vegetables and greens, of freshly plucked apples and strawberries, and the diligence that is required to tending gardens and ensuring that all matters are in working order. It is freshly dug earth. It is grease in the cogs of an infinite clockwork, the constant hurrying about. You smell precision and detail and absolute unquestionable loyalty. You take in another breath and - You smell horses and leather and the distinct human scent that comes when skin touches a burning blade. Whips and swords and bloody morningstars and the smell of the earth, again, except hastily dug to ease the burden hauling corpses. It is rope to your wrists and manacles around your feet. The teeth-gritting sound of sharpening swords and the roughness of hands to your throat and (I told you! I told you! I told you this isn’t so!)
Nico Meier - you take in a deep breath and you smell early mornings and the warm chamomile tea. His is the scent of fresh linen and beddings, of waking up and finding yourself warmed by the tender rays of the sun; of fresh water drawn for a bath, of lathering soap, and oils on smooth skin. It is peeking through a flutter of eyelids, of delicate china, and the way you chew when you know you have a secret. You take in another breath and - The stink of sewers and muck and sludge and dozens of other things no longer useful co-mingled with people who have been forgotten and forsaken and bear the burden and shame of being born. It is the underbelly of the city. It is unwashed bodies huddled together to keep warm during winter, of longing and desperation and feverish desire to live just one more day no matter what, to be something to someone or anyone or everyone and (I just wanted someone to really look at me)
Sid - you take in a deep breath and you smell freshly squeezed lemon garnished on vodka, of old whiskey and scotch on ice. Alcohol tempered by an even head on more even shoulders. It is the smell of sunny days and running on vast and open fields. His is the smell of constant presence, of laughter and inconsequence of any action you take whatsoever. It is throwing the ball so hard and so far and yet knowing that it will come back to you because it always does. You take in another breath and - It is the smell of chloroform and gasoline, of clandestine meetings over spiked drinks, of leaning in to whisper only the darkest of secrets. It is the binding of wrists and the gag in your mouth and the shadows at the corner of your eyes. Money constantly passing between hands because loyalty is nonexistent. It is the lightning fast jab you can’t quite see, the paranoia of perpetually holding a dagger under your pillow and (I need you to leave me alone)
Robert Branche - you take in a deep breath and you smell a hundred different paints and a hundred different solvents, and a hundred different canvases on display. His is the scent of splashing watercolor, of mixing colors for rainbows, of standing still and taking in the landscape. It is kneeling down on one knee to take each of you hand to kiss tenderly. His is the scent of restlessness and voyage, the gasps of experiencing things for the first time, of constant change and you take in another breath and - You smell an old, heavy cape that has never seen the rays of the sun. Myrrh smeared upon two hundred seventy bones. It is the smell of rigidness, of unbendable will. A thousand voices offering a thousand different advice, not even once considering that the ears that hear cannot bear the weight of the world. It is power thrust upon unready hands and (I did it to protect them, to protect you!)
If they had tot do a (scientific) final paper, what would the vets and 104th write their final paper about?
Mikasa: On the role of mothers in the axis countries during World War 2 Reiner: Influences of media on sports studio visitors Bertholdt: How invalidation affects minors in their emotional growth Annie: Effects of domestication of foreign birds on local biodiversity Eren: Moral theory of cannibalism Jean: Eating disorders in young males Marco: Consequences of the bee dying regarding the human immune system Sasha: How industrialization can help farmers instead of marginalizing them Connie: Fandom cluture and the fetishization of gay men in the western world Historia: A report on local child support services and orphanages Armin: A theoretical lookout on how marine life around nuclear areas could evolve Ymir: Same sex couples in ‘primitive’ societies
Levi: Ace erasure in the queer community Hanji: Similarities in the Paramecium and the Human Erwin: Why political ideologies are never working and we failed as a socitey Nanaba: How the wage gap affects women in gastronomic jobs Mike: People aged 60+ in the skateboarding community Moblit: The effects of alcohol on working morals
Yummy!!! Chocolate cake 🎂 say no more🤤❤️please
Creamy Chocolate Cake Chocolate Culinary Degree Culinary and Gastronomic (1erA 1erB) of CETT 200gr chocolate to 70% Guanaja Valrhona- 150gr butter- 3 egg whites- 4 yolks- 50gr sugar- 50 flour- 150gr whole walnuts Melt the chocolate and butter in the Microwave, mix the whites with the sugar and mix with the yolks. Add the flour with the nuts and cook at 190 ° 11 minutes
Procrastination rules my life.
Me: I should work, I have two essays due tomorrow and an exam. Let’s be productive for one day.
15 minutes later me: Do giraffes like watermelon? Let’s search it, read 4 articles about it and watch 10 videos explaining giraffes’ gastronomical preferences.
I should be studying right now.