It doesn't look like much but it tastes ah-mah-zing! Roasted Artichoke and Preserved Lemon pasta from the book, Anything's Pastable.
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Heyyy, 馃 Anon speaking, just doing my daily rounds, checking to see that your eating, drinking and sleeping the correct amount?
Lots of love!馃挄
... Eating and drinking.... Is a thing I should probably do
Lots of love 馃 Anon! Missed ya, hope you're well and the world is kind to you!
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So a very good friend of mine ran into some financial hardship recently, where his neighbor's apartment caught fire and while his own apartment wasn't burned down, it did suffer catastrophic smoke damage. A ton of his stuff is ruined, and his renter's insurance is denying his claim. If you've got a few $ to spare, he could use some help replacing all his damaged stuff and taking care of his cat.
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mithra wasn't known as any sort of culinary savante.
in fact, the man who would eat shells, and rocks, and magical stones of all sorts, was often known as the exact opposite.
but when he had stumbled into the cooking area- by complete accident- it was hard not to take up the mantle of the challenge. mithra was not a cook. he knew how to grill, and to char, and to burn something to his liking. he knew how to start a fire, and to watch it roar and drip with fat from meat on a pike. he knew, at bare minimum, how to survive. to eat something raw. to shovel snow into your mouth as you lay bleeding. to live, to live, to live.
but to be make something with your hands with care and with knowledge and with love- like nero, the blue-haired wizard from the east, the mysterious figaro who took place in the south, the sultry-eyed shylock of the west- was out of mithra's wheelhouse.
but a challenge was a challenge, and mithra hated losing.
it's how sparks of fire and magic and black, acrid smoke now floundered up from his station, his fingers covered in soot, his dull eyes trying to process whatever it was that he was making.
(not that mithra had any sort of idea what he was making either.)
the spiramonsters that had gathered around him in small, curious droves, snuffling at his hands, poking at his legs, peeking up over his countertop to see what sort of delicious flavors and smells would arise from the dishes had long since fled.
now, the only living beings that stayed near the wizard were amalgamations of garbage and poison, dark and fearsome looking beasts that could handle the pops and explosions and smoke and fire. mithra barely noticed they were there, flitting under his arms and watching his movements- so elegant despite the atrocities against food he was committing, so graceful despite his clear inexperience.
he drizzled a small amount of a mysterious spice into a pot and watched the fire roar underneath, clearly reacting with some amount of oil or magic or both.
"ah. it's ready."
long fingers wrapped steadily around the handle of horrible, smoking pot, tipping and pouring into a bowl with the consistency of something congealed; it was both liquid, and solid, and oozing, and bubbling. a strange, greenish-hued mist curled up off of the bowl, a miasma of whatever concoction the northerner had used to even create this 'signature dish'.
without waiting for it to cool, the bowl was moved from the countertop of mithra's station to the floor where the spiramon could more easily access it. the garbage-like and haunted creatures excitably approached, eager for their meal; but even they hesitated at the gurgling gloop that awaited them.
"go on." mithra encouraged, his voice dull yet commanding. "i poured my heart and my soul into this delicious meal, so please eat or i'll be very angry."
whether it was the threat or mithra's commanding presence, the spiramon eventually approached, sticking paws and lapping little pink tongues alike into the mysterious bowl of sludge.
and yet...
they seemed pleased with the concoction, eventually leaving nothing but the dregs in the bottom of the dish and a smug, pleased expression across the northerner's face.
he made a mental note to remember this recipe and force-feed it to his sage sometime in the future.
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