Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow [Locked]
Ruvin's been cooking since she convinced Robin and Rachel to vacate the apartment for a little while. Part of what she's making, she's been working on for several days with the help of a neighbor. More accurately, with the help of a nice neighbor's kitchen.
She's never mentioned her birthday. Last year... Well, last year she didn't even realize it was impending before it had passed, and who had there been to celebrate with? She'd been in Chicago for less than a week.
This year, though... This year, she wanted to do something.
The apartment is cleaned to the point of shining. Wreaths arc over the dining room ceiling, and the table itself is an array of food and decorations. Shchi, pelmeni, a large wok dish with a mix of vegetables and spices that steams faintly near the edge of the table. Molasses bread, fresh out of the oven, with melted butter, honey, and sweet sauces to drizzle over it.
The centerpiece took the longest. It's dessert, a little marzipan moon with a spun-sugar tree climbing from the top of it in rainbow colors. She broke, burned and melted the tree at least a dozen times before getting this one to work. The trunk is dyed green, the leaves (and the branches--she couldn't get the colors to keep from bleeding) look like stained-glass versions of autumn leaves.
She leans against the wall, looking over the table. It feels like there should be more, but no. This is enough--she's not cooking for a whole household, just the three of them. Well, maybe four.
Just for them.
She's never mentioned her birthday. Last year... Well, last year she didn't even realize it was impending before it had passed, and who had there been to celebrate with? She'd been in Chicago for less than a week.
This year, though... This year, she wanted to do something.
The apartment is cleaned to the point of shining. Wreaths arc over the dining room ceiling, and the table itself is an array of food and decorations. Shchi, pelmeni, a large wok dish with a mix of vegetables and spices that steams faintly near the edge of the table. Molasses bread, fresh out of the oven, with melted butter, honey, and sweet sauces to drizzle over it.
The centerpiece took the longest. It's dessert, a little marzipan moon with a spun-sugar tree climbing from the top of it in rainbow colors. She broke, burned and melted the tree at least a dozen times before getting this one to work. The trunk is dyed green, the leaves (and the branches--she couldn't get the colors to keep from bleeding) look like stained-glass versions of autumn leaves.
She leans against the wall, looking over the table. It feels like there should be more, but no. This is enough--she's not cooking for a whole household, just the three of them. Well, maybe four.
Just for them.