strangetrip | [OTA] comfort foods

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[OTA] comfort foods

Emma had spent more of the last four days in front of a fire with her cards than she wanted to admit to herself. She wouldn't even let herself think what Sabine or Dani would've said if they'd seen her. When not there, she'd been curled up in a blanket nest she made in one of the twin beds upstairs, crying until she felt dryer than the desert outside. It still felt too empty to sleep until exhaustion didn't leave her a choice, but it was better than the king bed would've been. She'd left that for her roommate. He'd been back sometime while she was upstairs, gotten his bag, and left again. That was okay. She didn't really want to people, and she'd only hurt him with her face, and her not knowing what to say or not make things worse just by existing.

Four days of only leaving the room long enough to get a bite to eat she wouldn't even taste was ridiculous, and when lying there unable to sleep got to be too much, she showered and dressed. Chop vegetables, boil water, Dani would've said. Shortly before dawn, the hotel kitchen was empty. Emptier than the castle's would've probably been that time of night.

With no appetite, she looked at what was available to decide where to start. Plenty of venison... a confit maybe, since it was so early, and would take time to cook. Once that was in the oven, she was lost for a moment, and grabbed a bag of onions. If a few tears formed as she sliced them thin, it was just the onions, that was all, and once she started them caramelizing, she felt steadier, and maybe ready to think of eating herself eventually. Soup later, from the onions.

Aligot. That was what she wanted. So she gathered her ingredients, and started to peel potatoes, dropping them whole into water with lemon juice. By the time sounds of the inn started to filter through, and others came into the kitchen she had more potatoes than she had any need for, and she started thinking of all the ways she could use them, each dish sounding as welcome as the last. Putting the peeled potatoes in the walk-in to keep cool, she went looking for a small chalkboard she'd seen in the café. In neat even letters, she wrote:

Today's Specials

Potatoes All Day

Latkes
6-11AM
Gratin Dauphinois
11AM-3PM
Raclette
3PM-7PM
Tartiflette
7PM-10PM
Aligot
12N-1PM, 8-9PM
Disco Fries
all day, made on order

DINNER SPECIAL

Confit de Venaison, Pané

Soupes du Jour
Potato Leek
French Onion

She added some scrolling designs in the margins and looked over her work. That would keep her busy. Busy was good. Feeding people, feeling like she was doing something useful, that was even better.

((OOC: Find Emma in the kitchens or the café, any time throughout the day. She's shy and sad, but always willing to talk about food, and willing to take requests.))

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Emma was good at slipping into and out of accents. Her native French, that had brought a young girl so much abuse starting school in the States. The faint Southern drawl she'd picked up as a defense, that had only helped a little at school, but built rapport with the people who crossed her path when she traveled with the carnival. The Cajun echoes of Sister Thérèse and Remy. Hints of Roman Italian, Scots and a generic English, from the places she'd called home. But Sunny's she didn't recognize at all, or what Naija would mean.

One thing she was fairly sure of though. She let a little more Yat into her speech as she said,"Something tells me you don't mean what they call yams down in New Orleans."

"No," Sunny answered in her American accent again, her mouth quirking. "Because those are sweet potatoes, and whoever started that mixup should be fired. Delicious, but show one to a Nigerian and call it a yam and we will totally judge you."

"At least I know the difference. I've just never learned to cook with actual yams. Never lived anywhere they were common." Nigeria, that made sense. "But you may know that. I don't..." know what you know, she thought but didn't finish aloud.

Emma shook her head. "I'm still getting used to being here, instead of... home. I started thinking comfort food, and that turned into all the potatoes and cheese."

"I just got here myself," Sunny admitted. "I thought I should make something that tastes like home. Really, though... I just need something to do. I've fed a family of five, I know my way around a kitchen. And no person in their right mind says no to potatoes and cheese."

Unless there were a medical reason of course, but it wasn't as funny with caveats.

No, it wasn't as funny with caveats, but Emma heard them anyway. "If you're sure... you can help me make aligot? And then I'll help with something that tastes like home for you. If you want." She'd never tried Nigerian food. She'd eaten in a few 'African' restaurants, but they were mostly northern Africa or Ethiopian, and food was too tied to culture to assume they'd be the same.

"I'll have to see what's even available first," Sunny mused, but she imagined there'd be enough in supply for groundnut stew. It was the most introductory dish she could think of, since you could make it mild and not think it was a complete travesty. Almost.

"For now, though, yes, I'm sure. And... maybe I can fill you in a little so we're not completely uneven in the what we know about each other thing." Nothing heavy, of course. It was still an introduction. But it would help Sunny remind herself that it was an introduction.

"I'd like that." Not knowing things always made Emma uncomfortable. Not knowing someone who knew her, or an alt of her, that was worse.

She already had some potatoes on the stove and went to check on them. They'd be ready to mash soon. "We'll need to grate some cheese. There's a white cheddar that should work, if you want to start on that?" By the time Emma got the rest of the mise en place set up, she could start on the potatoes.

"How much?" Sunny asked, already in motion to find the cheddar and a cheese grater. She didn't like that she had to, but she gave Em space so as not to presume on familiarity.

Aligot didn't save as well as some of the recipes she had planned, and Emma thought for a moment. "I usually eyeball it, but... two cups? Ish?" It was hard breaking the habit of making extra for whoever passed through. At home, the kitchens rarely stayed empty for long, one mutant metabolism or another needing to be fed.

Sunny nodded and made a sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat as she got to work. While she had her eyes on the task of grating and not on Em--for both their sakes--she began. "Basics. My name's Sunny Nwazue. Born and raised in New York until I was nine, and then my family moved back to Nigeria. I have two older brothers. Catholic. Lapsed." She paused a moment before just adding, "I'm a witch. My family doesn't know." Officially, anyway. They knew something was different about her.

Fair was fair, and Emma knew things didn't always stay close to the same from one world to another. So after listening closely to Sunny's introduction, hearing the parallels under their very different lives, she offered in return, "Marie-Ange Colbert. Emma, usually, but Em works too, whatever is easier for you. Born in France, moved to New Orleans with my grandmother when I was five. Convent school – also lapsed – to carny fortune teller, to traveling around Europe with my cousin. Traveller and mutant. I've been in Scotland for the past couple of years."

None of that was new to Sunny, but she didn't say so. Instead she took the opening to ask, "Why Scotland?" Because she wasn't sure she did know that part.

Choosing to stay had been a simple decision, but the castle starting to feel like home had taken longer. Home was people more than any place, and all Emma's people were there. But why Scotland in the first place... "The village was a mutant sanctuary. My cousin and I were attacked by mutant separatists when we wouldn't join their cause. We were rescued by members of a team who'd found refuge there and gone on to help others. They invited us back there so Sabine could recover, and afterwards we stayed."

"Jesus." Sunny winced. But it wasn't an unthinkable idea. Leopard People were not always kind to each other, either. And she'd seen acts of terrorism in her own country, which was all anybody seemed to know about Nigeria. Still... "Attacking your own. It's revolting."

"Being caught between the baseline humans who want to imprison or kill mutants and the mutants who want to kill baseline humans, it's hard to be the ones trying to live together. Some of us fight, so the rest of us can survive." It had only been a couple of months since the last attacks, from both groups.

"It's made us a target, but not having to hide is worth it."

Sunny nodded. "We had a time like that in our history, and we've been hiding ever since." Her pin-scratch frown deepened. "I understand the logic, but it's a lot of weight on a person's shoulders to keep everything under wraps."

"People fear what they don't understand." She probably didn't have to tell Sunny that, but it was true. "After mutants got more visible, the US passed a law saying we had to register. They throw people into camps. Experiment on them. Worse. I get hiding. Magic, mutation, doesn't matter. People shouldn't have to hide."

Sunny wished she could be surprised about that, but. Well. Chris Rock had said it best--Then I started listening. Cause I know niggers and Jews is next.

In her irritation she shredded more cheese than they needed, but there would probably be a use for the rest of it. For now, she eyeballed about two cups and scooped it into a small mixing bowl, muttering a string of soft curses.

Yeah, that was how Emma felt about it. But seeing Sunny was done with the cheese, she reached for the next thing to be done as they talked. "You could take over with the potatoes," Em said, where she was maybe half done putting the cooked potatoes through a ricer. "Or heat up the crème fraiche and garlic?" She'd already measured out the cream, and smashed a couple of cloves of garlic (more than they strictly needed for the amount of potatoes and cheese, but it was garlic). So Emma left it up to Sunny which.

There was never such a thing as too much garlic, Sunny believed this entirely. "I think that flare of temper might go better with the ricer," she observed with a self-deprecating little smile. Plus milk and cream could go wrong on you in a second, and she didn't think she had that kind of focus.

"Rice away," Emma said, handing over the ricer and stepping back to the stove, opening up space for Sunny by the potatoes. "How did we meet?" she asked as she put the small pan of crème fraiche on the heat. If Sunny's path had taken her from New York to Nigeria, and maybe beyond, Emma wondered how different her alt's life had been their paths had crossed.

"London," Sunny answered as she took up the ricer and began putting the potatoes through. "I was there for school. We met at midnight mass. Because lapsed Catholics or not, the pressure of family looms large at Christmas and Easter."

That made a kind of sense. Emma could imagine going down to visit Sabine at Christmas, and they would've attended the midnight mass. It was part of their tradition. But Sunny seemed like she knew the other Emma better than some brief encounter.

"My cousin moved to London to be with her boyfriend." A boyfriend who didn't care for Emma any more than she did for him, but they managed polite tolerance. "I was on my way to see her when..." She looked around to suggest this place.

If they met in London, though, that gave Emma another thought. "Do you know a guy called Jag?"

Sunny's hands paused momentarily. She nodded as she resumed her task. "Yes. Not well, but fondly."

Emma missed the nod, her eyes on the warming cream. She didn't want it to scorch; what other reason could she have for not risking even glancing eye contact when talking about this guy she didn't even know? Oh, right. Guilt, possibly misplaced, but still felt. Concern. Just to name a couple.

"He's here," she told Sunny in a rush, before hesitating over the rest, "And, um, I feel like he could use a friend? Or at least a familiar face who actually knows him."

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