010 ♠ [ video/action ] ♠ If Martha Stewart met Powerthirst
[ If there is one thing Scotland likes to do for enjoyment, it would be cooking. It seems that he's been rather bored as of late; picking fights and getting drunk can only satisfy one side of him; the roguish side of him.
He knows he isn't allowed in the kitchen, but considering all of his recently bought booze is gone which is just depressing to him, he has to seek entertainment somehow, right?
Anyhow, there's a lonely bottle of vodka he's found, and he seems to be content and slightly buzzed with it.
There's a black screen and some muttering, adjusting of the communicator. Scotland appears, and he's in an apron. It looks like some delicate shade of periwinkle. That's strange enough. He reaches over to his bottle of vodka and kicks his head back to drink from it before clearing his throat. Skirting his tongue over his lips, he then speaks, completely linefaced. ]
Guid eenin', Thor. I'mmur fucking depressed and fucking bored. Sick and tired of nae gettin' oot enough, so I'mmur gonnae be more social.... by staying indoors and talking with ye all. I'll be showin' ya somethin' from me hoose.
Tonight, I will be showing ye how ta' cook somethin'....
[ He rolls up his sleeves, revealing two burly, if not hairy arms etched with freckles. He has all of his ingredients and supplies in front of him. Holding up six leeks, he scrunches his nose, eyes halfway open. ]
Right. Chicken soup from me country. Ye'll be needin' these; ye can get them from Wales cause that's all the bastard is good for. Ye'll need six of them. Fuckin' chop that shite intae half pieces. Unleash all your fuckin' anger on them; cooking is therapy.
[ He lowers his hand and chop, chop, chop. Viciously. Violently. He dumps the leek halves into a pot.Then, he holds a stick of butter, thinks about it, then just puts the entire stick in the pot. ]
Put butter. I guess. Can never 'ave enough of that. Let it simmer.
....
Fuck simmering. Turn it up.
[ He puts the pot on the stove before turning back to the Guide. Blinking slowly, he talks again. ]
Add chicken stock. Five should do.
[ The cans of chicken are stabbed with a knife ad he pries them open, one after one and dumps them in the pot. He watches it all boil for a moment before cranking up the stove and taking a swig of vodka. He shuffles around, holding up a case of whipped cream, and dumps that in the pot too, along with sprinkling some salt, which is just kind of shaking the salt shaker and salt goes everywhere. Folding his arms over his chest, he sniffs the air. ]
Y'can add prunes if'n ye want. I was gonnae be addin' those, but some fucking wank stain at the store got the last pack of me favourite kind. So fuck that.
Next step, wait until it catches on fire. This step is fucking easy but takes awhile and who the hell waits for shit.
[ He cranks up the stove again to the highest part, ignoring the fact some of it is boiling over. ]
Drink vodka or anything alcoholic as ye wait. Get pissed if'n ye want; drown everything yer miserable about out. Forget everything ye regret by thinking about how fuckin' ace this bowl of soup will be tasting. Cause it's gonnae be tasting right braw or fuck me sideways.
[ And now, the soup is smoking. He holds up a finger as he kicks his head back, drinking from the vodka again. Finally, something in the pot just kind of explodes, and the smoke detector goes off. He lowers the vodka bottle. ]
When that buzzer goes aff, means yer done, ya ken?
[ He pulls the pot off of the stove and coughs, holding the pot up to the Guide. ]
--Next week I'll be teaching ya how ta' make fried breakfast. Dinnae want ta' miss that.
He knows he isn't allowed in the kitchen, but considering all of his recently bought booze is gone which is just depressing to him, he has to seek entertainment somehow, right?
Anyhow, there's a lonely bottle of vodka he's found, and he seems to be content and slightly buzzed with it.
There's a black screen and some muttering, adjusting of the communicator. Scotland appears, and he's in an apron. It looks like some delicate shade of periwinkle. That's strange enough. He reaches over to his bottle of vodka and kicks his head back to drink from it before clearing his throat. Skirting his tongue over his lips, he then speaks, completely linefaced. ]
Guid eenin', Thor. I'mmur fucking depressed and fucking bored. Sick and tired of nae gettin' oot enough, so I'mmur gonnae be more social.... by staying indoors and talking with ye all. I'll be showin' ya somethin' from me hoose.
Tonight, I will be showing ye how ta' cook somethin'....
[ He rolls up his sleeves, revealing two burly, if not hairy arms etched with freckles. He has all of his ingredients and supplies in front of him. Holding up six leeks, he scrunches his nose, eyes halfway open. ]
Right. Chicken soup from me country. Ye'll be needin' these; ye can get them from Wales cause that's all the bastard is good for. Ye'll need six of them. Fuckin' chop that shite intae half pieces. Unleash all your fuckin' anger on them; cooking is therapy.
[ He lowers his hand and chop, chop, chop. Viciously. Violently. He dumps the leek halves into a pot.Then, he holds a stick of butter, thinks about it, then just puts the entire stick in the pot. ]
Put butter. I guess. Can never 'ave enough of that. Let it simmer.
....
Fuck simmering. Turn it up.
[ He puts the pot on the stove before turning back to the Guide. Blinking slowly, he talks again. ]
Add chicken stock. Five should do.
[ The cans of chicken are stabbed with a knife ad he pries them open, one after one and dumps them in the pot. He watches it all boil for a moment before cranking up the stove and taking a swig of vodka. He shuffles around, holding up a case of whipped cream, and dumps that in the pot too, along with sprinkling some salt, which is just kind of shaking the salt shaker and salt goes everywhere. Folding his arms over his chest, he sniffs the air. ]
Y'can add prunes if'n ye want. I was gonnae be addin' those, but some fucking wank stain at the store got the last pack of me favourite kind. So fuck that.
Next step, wait until it catches on fire. This step is fucking easy but takes awhile and who the hell waits for shit.
[ He cranks up the stove again to the highest part, ignoring the fact some of it is boiling over. ]
Drink vodka or anything alcoholic as ye wait. Get pissed if'n ye want; drown everything yer miserable about out. Forget everything ye regret by thinking about how fuckin' ace this bowl of soup will be tasting. Cause it's gonnae be tasting right braw or fuck me sideways.
[ And now, the soup is smoking. He holds up a finger as he kicks his head back, drinking from the vodka again. Finally, something in the pot just kind of explodes, and the smoke detector goes off. He lowers the vodka bottle. ]
When that buzzer goes aff, means yer done, ya ken?
[ He pulls the pot off of the stove and coughs, holding the pot up to the Guide. ]
--Next week I'll be teaching ya how ta' make fried breakfast. Dinnae want ta' miss that.