( by this point in her interdimensional, world hopping shenanigans, clarke has had quite a few meals she'd consider delightful. from chocolate cake, to her first properly seasoned, slapped-together stew on her home planet, to steaming piles of mashed potatoes, crab legs, and beef tips presented buffet style on the serena eterna, to the greasy burgers and frothy milkshakes served in the local diner, and the wide array of dishes offered on rotation in the hospital cafeteria. from food prepared by enemies, by friends, ghosts, and robots.
but she's seldom ever gotten to peek behind the curtain; had the opportunity to witness the raw ingredients and the process it takes to transform them into a full plate, let alone the undertaking shouldered with ease and... dare she call it glee? parmesan looks like any other cheese, dill is only vaguely recognizable from years of earth skills lessons which highlighted which vegetation was poisonous and which was edible, she cannot even imagine willingly eating liver. but hannibal pulls on an apron like scrubs, and preps his cooking space like a surgeon. and she's stuck on the sidelines like an unnecessary anesthesiologist, nothing to do with her hands but rub her finger in the condensation collection around her chilled glass of orange juice and watch.
and he talks. about inane things like butchers and poetry, and all clarke would have to contribute to the former is a reinforcement of skepticism — for all they knew, cuts of meat around here could be from humans as easily as they were from the local wildlife. )
I know Poe. ( the weird urge to list all the other poets she's become familiar with within the two years spent on a cruise liner that boasted a decent fiction-only library swells — frost, melville, dickinson — but is summarily popped like a bubble. why try to prove herself to him? ) What's Hall written?
no subject
but she's seldom ever gotten to peek behind the curtain; had the opportunity to witness the raw ingredients and the process it takes to transform them into a full plate, let alone the undertaking shouldered with ease and... dare she call it glee? parmesan looks like any other cheese, dill is only vaguely recognizable from years of earth skills lessons which highlighted which vegetation was poisonous and which was edible, she cannot even imagine willingly eating liver. but hannibal pulls on an apron like scrubs, and preps his cooking space like a surgeon. and she's stuck on the sidelines like an unnecessary anesthesiologist, nothing to do with her hands but rub her finger in the condensation collection around her chilled glass of orange juice and watch.
and he talks. about inane things like butchers and poetry, and all clarke would have to contribute to the former is a reinforcement of skepticism — for all they knew, cuts of meat around here could be from humans as easily as they were from the local wildlife. )
I know Poe. ( the weird urge to list all the other poets she's become familiar with within the two years spent on a cruise liner that boasted a decent fiction-only library swells — frost, melville, dickinson — but is summarily popped like a bubble. why try to prove herself to him? ) What's Hall written?