1 ½ cups of whole wheat flour ½ cup all purpose flour 1 tbsp baking powder 1 cup peanut butter I used smooth ¾ cup of milk In a large bowl combine flour and baking powder In a small bowl whisk peanut butter and milk until smooth Make a well in flour mixt. and gradually stir in milk mixture until well blended Use hands to make dough into 2 pliable balls Knead each ball well on a floured surface about 2 mins With a rolling pin roll out dough to ¼ or ½ inch thickness..stamp name:) Place on baking sheet lined with foil(I used parchment) Bake 15 mins at 400 F..(Check..mine were small took less long) Cool on a rack and store in sealed plastic bags in the refrigerator
There’s a long simmering conversation in the food world about cultural appropriation — about who’s allowed to cook what, and why — but it’s usually a tad more subtle than what Kali Wilgus and Liz “LC” Connelly confessed to Willamette Week in Portland, Oregon.
Wilgus and Connelly were profiled by Willamette Weekabout the delicious handmade tortillas they sell out of a food truck called Kooks Burritos on Cesar Chavez Boulevard in Portland. The duo said they learned their craft from women in Puerto Nuevo, Mexico.
“I picked the brains of every tortilla lady there in the worst broken Spanish ever, and they showed me a little of what they did,” Connelly told Willamette Week. “They told us the basic ingredients, and we saw them moving and stretching the dough similar to how pizza makers do before rolling it out with rolling pins. They wouldn’t tell us too much about technique, but we were peeking into the windows of every kitchen, totally fascinated by how easy they made it look. We learned quickly it isn’t quite that easy.”
The problem, of course, is that it’s unclear whether the Mexican women who handed over their recipes ever got anything in return. And now those same recipes are being sold as a delicacy in Portland. Read more (5/19/17)
i talked to him on a wednesday. he sighed on my bed. i was skyping my sister, who was trying to teach me how to knit. i told him i needed to go to bed early, i had a test in the morning. he said he had things to discuss and i’m a patient person so i listened.
this is, i learn, how our “friendship” works. hours of my life become his sanctuary. he texts me constantly. his problems fill up every space in my planner. often he demands my attention rather than asking. i feel bad, because i’m the type to feel bad, so i listen. i offer advice that goes ignored, i sit in contemplative silence even though i should be studying, i nod my head and support him.
he doesn’t notice i start drinking wine as soon as he shows up. a few times i make the mistake of trying to bring my own problems up. they are always overshadowed by his own, or else i am given an odd supply of uncomfortable comments. “i don’t feel good lately” is met with “a girl as pretty as you isn’t supposed to feel sad.” i say “i don’t like my writing recently” and he spends forty seconds saying i’m beautiful and intelligent and a perfect girlfriend before saying “unlike me, i’m awful” and before i know it, i’m comforting him again. we don’t have real conversations. once, as an experiment, i spend two hours completely silent, just to see if he’ll notice. he doesn’t.
once he bursts into my room while i’m scheduling my week. he’s taken aback by how much i’m doing. “you look so busy!” he says, “where’s all the time you’re planning on spending with me?” he doesn’t ask about any of my other activities. he knows nothing about my life except that i’m good at listening. i feel myself under a rolling pin. he flattens me out to use me. he punishes me if i don’t give him attention - all i hear is how he is useless without me, how he’s barely holding on, how he doesn’t know what he’d do if one day i was gone. he doesn’t know my middle name. he misses my birthday.
it’s wednesday again. i’ve been drinking. he took some of my wine without asking. he lounges on my couch with his arm casually around me. my actual friends know i don’t like touching. i asked him to move but he just laughed and said “you’re so funny.” he’s too heavy for me to move physically so i just let him lay there, complaining. i stare into space, thinking about the news i got that day. about how my life has changed.
he looks up to me. “can i ask you a personal question?”
i don’t say “that would be a first,” because my mother raised me to respond politely. i tell him go ahead, as always, i’m listening.
“why do girls like you date jerks?” he asks me.
i stare at him, uncomprehending. he is a runaway train, his mouth still moving. “I just mean,” he says, “you’re all always going after the worst guys like you don’t even see people like me. like i’m always being friend-zoned, even you did it, and you’re one of the only people who is nice to me. but girls like you never say yes to boys like me.”
i don’t know what he’s saying. i’m dating a girl, and he would know that, if he knew anything about me; a clever and talented girl who means everything to me.
he sighs and sits back when i’m not immediate in responding. “this,” he says, “is what i mean.” looks up with puppy dog eyes at me, “i mean could you ever date someone as awful as me? am i just a friend? am i doomed to be nothing more than the friend to pretty girls?”
we aren’t friends. we aren’t friends. we aren’t friends.
he moves the topic before i can reply, back to his problems. i text my girlfriend, “men are animals” and she sends me back a poem about how much she loves me. he tries to kiss me when he leaves, and when i duck out of it, i later get sixteen texts on how scared i am of sex. his facebook posts are all about how women don’t know how to find the right men. how we’re blind to the good things. how we don’t see fate when it’s happening.
This is a great way to utilize some scrap wood. Let’s get to it. Glue up the main pin, somewhere in the neighborhood of 2″ x 2″ and 18″-24″ in length.
Next, create a terrible-looking but effective jig that will cut a consistent angle that you like. It should have some sort of stop so that you are always cutting the same center point. My stop is that notch in the walnut.
Insert a thin piece of contrasting wood and glue it up. This will be a pain, but try to get the pin pieces as aligned as possible.
Rotate the piece 90 degrees or 180 degrees, depending on what kind of knot you prefer.
Ideally, you should mark one end of the pin and ALWAYS put that end in the same end of the jig. I didn’t, and the rings were off-center. After pouting for a bit, I problem-solved by making this a double Celtic knot.
Trim it up to prep it for the lathe and then start making it round. Once round, mark your ends from center to create the classic tapered ends of a french rolling pin.
Meanwhile, admire how awesome the center of pin looks!
Sand it up and then apply some food-grade finish to it. I used butcher block treatment that I use on cutting boards.
(Zimbits, AU, 3.7K, click “read more” for the whole fic.)
“Thanks. You can put it on the counter in the kitchen.”
That had been Jack’s first mistake.
It wasn’t so much the words he said, but rather the fact that he’d said them in French.
However, to Jack’s credit, he had been in the middle of revising a chapter when he’d heard the knock on his door, and the fact that he hadn’t had any caffeine yet due to the broken coffee maker had thrown off his entire morning.
He had been expecting Georgia, the lady he rented the cabin from, to be standing on his door step. However, instead of the landlord, he got a blond guy with wide, brown eyes staring back at him.
There was a sort of gurgle of surprise and a nervous giggle from the other guy for a moment before he blurted, “Hi, I’m your new housekeeper!”
Jack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything in his confusion. Francine, Georgia’s wife, usually stopped by once every couple of days to tidy up the place, but neither of the two ladies had mentioned anything about a new hire.
Jack must have been lost in thought for a moment too long because the other guy took this as a sign that Jack didn’t speak English. “Uh, you know, cleaning?” He mimed a sweeping action and then pointed at Jack. “Ummm, je… travaille pour Georgia?” he said in a truly horrendous accent.
Jack gave an impatient nod of his head.
“Je m’appelle Eric or you can call me Bitty. Actually, je m’appelle Bitty,” he said proudly with his hand out.
There was something about the other guy’s candidness that made Jack pause, or maybe he had been trapped in a cabin for too long, but he reached out and took the handshake.
What do you think about an “i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au with charmer or nurseydex or zimbits or something??
Well, I don’t know if you expected three mini fics, and I didn’t fully follow the prompt, but here we are.
Look, Chris knew it was dumb. He knew that everyone on earth had a plain black suitcase, he knew he should have double-checked the luggage tag, he knew it was important to be sure abut these things. But knowing what he should have done couldn’t help him when he finally got his suitcase home and opened it up to find mostly yoga pants and sundresses.
He zipped the bag back up and flipped open the luggage tag. It was cute, pink with some metallic lettering saying “I’m outta here!” in a handwritten font. Chris blamed jetlag and the redeye flight for making him miss the fact that it wasn’t his Sharks tag. He blamed the bag’s owner for not filling out any of the information on the tag.
Well, sorry random girl, he thought. He opened the suitcase up again to try to see if he could find anything that would give him a clue as to who the suitcase owner was. He moved a makeup bag aside, and hit gold immediately. Well, Samwell red. A Women’s Volleyball tshirt– mystery suitcase girl had to be on the volleyball team.
“Hey Ransom!” he yelled. “You’re facebook friends with all the volleyball team right?”
“He’s friends with everyone on campus!” Holster yelled back.
“Ask their captain if anyone flew in from the Bay Area and lost their luggage!”
“Is Justin here? My captain said he’s got my suitcase.” Chris overheard her at the door. He grabbed the bag and started hauling it downstairs. As he set it down at the bottom and caught sight of the girl in the doorway, he froze. She was pretty. Like, really pretty.
“Um, hi,” he said.
“So you’re Justin? Oh my god, I’m so glad it wasn’t some total rando who got my bag.”
“I’m actually Chris, Justin was just the one who was friends with your captain. Um, I’m sorry, but I kind of had to look through your stuff? Your luggage tag wasn’t filled out.” The girl laughed.
“Yours wasn’t either! Me and my teammates were like one minute away from googling the record holder for most San Jose Sharks merch, but it totally makes sense that you’re on the hockey team.”
“Since we both forgot to write our numbers down, maybe we should do that now?” Chris suggested. The girl grinned, grabbed his phone out of his hand, and opened up a new contact. She punched in a number, and when she handed it back he saw a text of several random emojis addressed to the new contact of “Caitlin Farmer” with a girl farmer emoji and a volleyball emoji.
“Text me sometime, and maybe we can get dinner?” she said, and she was gone with her suitcase.
Chris collapsed on the couch, a dreamy look in his eyes.
“Chowder? You get your suitcase back?” Bitty called out from the kitchen.
“Yeah! and I think I’m in love now!”
“Cheryl, I’m telling you, I had a ton of inspiration on the plane and I wrote some great stuff for act three. No. No, it wasn’t just me thinking it’s great because I popped some melatonin and got really sleepy. It’s like, legit. Yeah, I’ll send it over as soon as I get home and–”
Derek slammed into something. If he’d been holding his phone in his hand (bluetooth is a blessing when you drop stuff easily) it would have launched across the airport. As it was, his post-flight latte was soaking through the nice white shirt of the handsome stranger in front of him.
“Shit,” the stranger said, looking down to survey the damage.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have trusted myself to make a phone call and not be clumsy after such a long flight,” Derek said. He set his briefcase down and pulled a wad of napkins out of the outside pocket. The guy took a deep breath, going from murderous to calm in a few seconds.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going either, it’s not your fault,” the guy said, setting down his own briefcase and accepting the napkins. He blotted at his shirt.
“Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Or a replacement,” Derek offered. The man shook his head.
“It’s fine, it probably needed to go to the cleaners anyways.” He checked his watch. “If I run, I can probably get a new one before my meeting.” He wadded the napkins into one big ball, picked up his briefcase, and walked towards the exit with a terse nod. Derek, feeling terrible about the whole thing, picked up his own briefcase and walked to baggage claim.
By the time he was reunited with his home office, a cozy bookshelf-lined room in his brownstone, he had almost forgotten about the coffee incident. He was focused on sending the manuscript to Cheryl. Unfortunately, that was going to be difficult, considering he pulled a PC laptop out of the bag instead of his Mac.
Derek stared at the computer for a full minute. He almost couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. Hesitantly, he opened the laptop. On one side of the keyboard there was a weird thing that a few seconds of phone googling told him was a fingerprint scanner. Shit. He hit the space bar experimentally. Something flashed on the screen, and then was replaced with just a plain black screen with red text: ACCESS DENIED
Derek swore. He started to look through the rest of what was in the briefcase, but was disappointed to find it empty except for the laptop’s charger, three packs of gum, and receipts from a lobster shack in Maine. Shit. Nothing in here would tell him anything about the redhead he’d launched a latte at.
He closed the laptop dejectedly, ignored his editor’s text messages, and went into the kitchen to make himself lunch and feel sorry for himself. This was the universe punishing him for covering a cute guy with coffee. If he had just kept his focus and waited to call his editor later, he could have sent the draft along and saved it and not be desperately trying to remember his inspiration.
Just as the self-pity spiral was really taking off, the doorbell rang. Derek sighed, put down his tea, and walked to the door. When he opened it, it wasn’t Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses, but the guy from the airport.
“Cancel whatever you’re doing today, I need to teach you the most basic principles of digital security,” the guy said, pushing past Derek into the dining room. He shoved a stack of papers onto a chair and pulled Derek’s laptop out.
“I’m Will, by the way, I make software that’s hopefully a step ahead of viruses.”
“Is the draft still there?”
“The draft of what?” The guy looked confused.
“My third act breakthrough. I’m a novelist, I need to get it to my editor and I couldn’t remember if I saved it,” Derek explained.
“You know you can set up an auto-save every five minutes or so, right?” Will asked.
“This might be surprising to you, but I’ve never had a cute guy storm into my house and yell at me about computers before.” Will looked up from Derek’s computer, blushing.
“I haven’t had a cute guy dump a gallon of coffee all over me and steal my laptop before, either, but here we are.”
“Maybe you can yell about computers over lunch with me?”
Button downs. Tank tops. Slacks. Shorts. Three rolling pins. A pie tin. A half-emptied multipack of sharpies.
No lucky puck. No clothes in his size. No jerseys.
Jack sighed. It would just be too much to ask for anything to go well today. He picked up his phone to call someone with the Falconers, in the hope that they could talk to the airline and sort all this out. At the same time, his phone lit up with Tater’s face.
“Zimmboni! Look on twitter. Small internet baker has your suitcase!” Tater hung up before he could reply, so Jack just opened twitter instead.
omgcheckplease: A bunch of pucks, some dirty jerseys, and a history textbook. Either I’m back in college or this isn’t my suitcase.
omgcheckplease: .@falcsofficial please tell your #1 player to DM me and come get his shit
omgcheckplease: and @falcsofficial tell him to give me my shit back. my hockey days are in the past, I need rolling pins, not a mouthguard
Jack smiled and laughed in the way a person laughs when they’re alone, just blowing more air than normal out of his nose. He looked through the twitter for a minute– the guy, Eric Bittle, was a Providence-based chef, whose latest tweets were mostly greetings to the various cities he’d been visiting on tour. Jack clicked the media tab on the account, and looked through the pictures. Bittle was cute. He wrote a reply.
zimmboni: .@omgcheckplease how do I send u a DM
omgcheckplease: .@zimmboni you don’t deserve to be verified, oh my god #verifybittle2k17
A few seconds later another notification popped up, and he tapped it to be brought to a DM window.
omgcheckplease: hey! sorry about the mixup. I can only imagine how confused you were to find all my book tour stuff.
zimmboni: Probably as confused as you were finding hockey stuff?
omgcheckplease: I wasn’t joking in my tweets, I did play hockey before I got into the whole cookbook/food show thing
zimmboni: Exactly, I did a book tour last year in the off-season :-)
omgcheckplease: oh my gosh, isn’t it the best and the worst?
zimmboni: I know. It’s great to meet people and talk about your work, but it’s exhausting.
omgcheckplease: that’s why I’m so excited to be back in Providence! at least until the next cookbook.
zimmboni: Well we should probably meet up to trade suitcases. Want to meet somewhere for dinner?
omgcheckplease: don’t trust me to learn where your house is?
zimmboni: I mean, if dinner goes well enough…
omgcheckplease: OH. okay, then, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s a date.
Jack smiled to himself, and got ready for his date.
Thought; spontaneously dragging Steve of Bucky into random makeout sessions throughout the day and then just leaving him out of breath as you continue in with your business” And a very pleasant thought it is.
Warning: Language, making out, and utter ridiculousness
A/N: I had more free time than I anticipated, so you’re getting this early. You have the snow storm to thank for this nonsense.
What new vegas features do you miss the most in f4?
honestly? the writing. New Vegas had excellent writing, from the plot to the characters to just the dialogue options available to the courier. Having a voice is nice but with the limited dialogue you just can’t roleplay the same way you could in NV. Sole can only either be a bit of a dick, a totally nice guy or a smartass, while the courier can be anything from a complete moron, to an insufferable know-it-all, a smooth talker, a bit of a slut, a violent brute, a sarcastic douche, a by-the-book hero, a quiet badass and anything in between.
And while we’re on dialogue, I really miss the Skill Check dialogue system from NV. You either had the skill needed to get certain things (or just finish quests on an alternate path) or you didn’t, and it was always clear because you got a display that told you how high of a skill you needed (like “Speech [25/30]). Most importantly, if you didn’t have the needed skill, the actual dialogue would change, giving a good reason why the NPC you were talking to would react differently than if you had said the right thing. Plus some of the failed dialogue checks were some of the funniest parts of the game.
In FO4, if you pass a speech check or not is determined entirely by chance. You can have a CHA stat of 10 and still fail. Then you reload, your character says the exact same thing in the exact same context to the same character at the same time AND NOW IT WORKS FOR SOME REASON. That’s annoying busywork and kind of breaks my immersion. They had the same thing in FO3 where your chance of success in speech checks was given in percentages and I didn’t like it there either.
I also like that the courier’s backstory was kept relatively vague, so you could make up your own story for your character. FO4 gives you a pre-baked background that is pretty lukewarm for my tastes and doesn’t leave much room to make up your own character interpretation (unless you do some hard retconning/headcanon action to get around that, but even then it’s not amazing).
But other than that, New Vegas generally just didn’t take itself as seriously as FO4. FO4 has all this big focus on how miserable everyone is and how shitty life in the wasteland is. There is so much drama with families being torn apart, everyone being afraid of the Institute, the Brotherhood stomping about the place, children dying of incurable diseases…it is all so dark and serious and miserable it gets exhausting after a while.
New Vegas has dark stuff too, with drug use, slavery, prostitution, bureaucratic fuckery costing lives, war crimes, lack of medical aid, lack of food and fresh water and power, economic inequality…i could go on. So it absolutely has serious and dark issues. I mean one of the companion characters mercy killed his pregnant wife to spare her the horrors of slavery for fuck’s sake.
But you know what it also has? Ghouls flying to the moon. A gang of grannies in pink dresses beating people to death with rolling pins. Cyberdogs. A big blue grandma who looks like hulk and wears a cute flower hat. A gang of elvis impersonators. at least two (2) robots who think they’re cowboys. People cosplaying ancient romans. A dude wearing a dog for a hat. A giant plastic dinosaur with a store inside that sells tiny plastic dinosaur souvenirs. A sexbot called “FISTO” that you can hire for yourself if you wish.
What I’m trying to say is, New Vegas had a lot of serious themes (I’d argue them being even portrayed better than in FO4 but that’s a matter of opinion). But at the same time it didn’t lose it’s sense of humor. This is a world where science can make people live 200 years, create super mutants by dipping people in green goo, and radiation is basically magic. It’s not super serious all the time or tragic. Might as well have some fun with it. Fallout has a long history of dark comedy after all.
FO4 kinda lost the humor aspect and maybe it’s personal preference, but I never liked media where everything is just sad and miserable all the time because you get kinda tired of it and desensitized after a while. I don’t hate it or anything, but it can never reach the same place in my heart fnv did ;-;
god sorry for the novel i could just talk about fnv all day
Jack hates conventions – the crowds, the noise, the forced socialization, but it’s a work thing that must be done. Enter Samwell Hockey Player, Eric Bittle, who attends the convention with a group of friends. Suddenly things begin to look up. Jack and Bitty meet at Falcs Fest. Flirting, shenanigans, and love ensue.
“Jack, I realize it’s not how you want to spend your weekend,” George said then paused to take a long sip of coffee. “But it is what it is, and everyone has to do it.” She smiled and added, “So suck it up, mister.”
Jack frowned, “Fine. Fine. Everyone else has to attend, too, right? Everyone?”
George leaned back in her chair and nodded, “Yes. Tater, Thirdy, Guy, Marty, Snowy, Poots – everyone. Misery loves company, after all.”
Jack huffed petulantly.
“I’m kidding!” George said with a laugh, “Come on. The Hawks are always bragging about their convention, so we have to make our inaugural one fantastic and have everyone there.”
Jack shrugged and took a pen from George’s desk, he twirled it absentmindedly in his fingers.
“Jack, it’ll be fine, and guess what? You might actually enjoy it. An entire weekend surrounded by adoring fans, eating anything you want, being handed people’s babies, dancing and whatnot?”
Jack got up and pushed his chair in. “Thanks, George.”
George smiled, then took her attention back to her computer, as Jack loomed in her office doorway.
“Yes, Jack?” She asked as she wrote something in an appointment book.
“Do we have to stay at the hotel, too?”
“Up to you, Jack. Do you feel like driving home back and forth early in the morning and late at night? Most of the guys are making a weekend of it and staying there. There’ll be team brunches every morning. We still have a couple rooms available in the block we reserved, so you can stay there if you want.”
Jack frowned again.
George paused and looked at him, “A little fun won’t kill you, Zimmermann.”
Jack nodded, attempted a meager smile and exited George’s office.