(no subject)
Robin Goodfellow didn't cook often - which was not to say that he couldn't cook. Only that he was lazy as a hound in the summer heat. Robin could cook, he'd been around long enough for that. And there was at least one recipe he remembered off of the top of his very curly, peerlessly handsome head. Alice B. Toklas' special brownies - which, actually, were really more of a hashish-laced brownie-like fudge. Either way, he remembered:
One teaspoon black peppercorns, one whole nutmeg, four everage sticks of cinnamon, one teaspoon coriander, pulverized in a mortar. A handful of stone dates, dried figs, shelled almonds and peanuts, copped and mixed together. Cocoa. Canibus sativa, pulverized. Dusted over, with the spices, the mixed fruit and nuts, and needed together. A cup sugar, dissolved in a stick of butter, rolled into a cake and cut into pieces each about the size of a walnut in the shell.
And, Robin reminded himself, he'd have to be careful not to overindulge. Two pieces was usually quite sufficient for humans. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand and bitched as loudly as possible about being stuck indoors due to heavy rain and fuck all knew what else and there was a reason his very fine formerly immortal ass did not ever, ever spend much time in tropical climes. It was murder on his hair. Murder. The hair he'd found a small, curling strand of silver in that morning.
Hence the dire need for miss Alice B. Toklas' special brownies.
He darted around the Compound's kitchen, looking for a good-sized cake pan to spread a little butter into, so that he could knead the brown fudge flat into the pan and cut it into pieces. Maybe pieces a little bigger than a walnut. Screw erring on the side of caution. Screw the Compound for being boring and horrible. Screw Ishiah for moving them both back into it with a stern look and the flash of a sword.
[ hi again! open for new tags until saturday. great time for meeting robin. ]
One teaspoon black peppercorns, one whole nutmeg, four everage sticks of cinnamon, one teaspoon coriander, pulverized in a mortar. A handful of stone dates, dried figs, shelled almonds and peanuts, copped and mixed together. Cocoa. Canibus sativa, pulverized. Dusted over, with the spices, the mixed fruit and nuts, and needed together. A cup sugar, dissolved in a stick of butter, rolled into a cake and cut into pieces each about the size of a walnut in the shell.
And, Robin reminded himself, he'd have to be careful not to overindulge. Two pieces was usually quite sufficient for humans. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand and bitched as loudly as possible about being stuck indoors due to heavy rain and fuck all knew what else and there was a reason his very fine formerly immortal ass did not ever, ever spend much time in tropical climes. It was murder on his hair. Murder. The hair he'd found a small, curling strand of silver in that morning.
Hence the dire need for miss Alice B. Toklas' special brownies.
He darted around the Compound's kitchen, looking for a good-sized cake pan to spread a little butter into, so that he could knead the brown fudge flat into the pan and cut it into pieces. Maybe pieces a little bigger than a walnut. Screw erring on the side of caution. Screw the Compound for being boring and horrible. Screw Ishiah for moving them both back into it with a stern look and the flash of a sword.
[ hi again! open for new tags until saturday. great time for meeting robin. ]