ArchivedLogs:Embellishments

Embellishments
Seriously, though, who puts ketchup on latkes?
Dramatis Personae Ryan, Micah	2 June 2013 Micah goes looking for a Horus, but finds a Ryan instead! And there are latkes.
Location <NYC> 304 {Ryan} - Village Lofts - East Village
Similar in layout to many apartments in this building, the front door opens into a narrow entryway with a small coat closet. The living room beyond is wide and receives plenty of light from its high windows; floored in dark hardwood, it is separated from the adjoining kitchen by a half-wall counter, stools perched on the living room side and the sink and counterspace on the kitchen side. On the other side from the kitchen stands doors branching off to a pair of bedrooms and one bathroom; to the left of the entryway, a short hall wraps around past the kitchen to the second pair of bedrooms, a second bathroom at the far end of the hall. The apartment here stands often in a state of disarray, musical equipment or books or scattered notes spread among the pair of couches or coffeetable. The kitchen, at least, is usually kept neatly organized in contrast to the living room's clutter. At odd intervals from the walls, sturdy wooden poles branch out, somewhat akin to very large bird perches. The concept of time often loses itself amongst the residents of the Village Lofts. Although late night, plenty of activity abounds on the third floor, most of the action centering around apartment 304 and even spilling into the hallway with the door propped open as it is. Music feeds out first, a melancholy indie beat with a soft, quivering lead-vocalist who whines his heartache through the speakers. Next, aromas waft out. Following these sensory lures, one finds Ryan to be their cause. His iPod docking station blasts from the half-wall counter, while he stands on the other side, in the kitchen, standing over the stove. Tonight, the various dietary habits of he and his roommates are met with a catch-all: fried latkes, sizzling and crackling in a pool of hot oil as the rockstar-turned-cook pokes at them with a spatula. Well, any concern about it being late is allayed by all the sounds and smells wafting into the hallway! Micah trots right up to the door, giving it three sharp wraps to announce his presence. He is wearing faded jeans, a black xkcd ‘STAND BACK I’M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE’ T-shirt, and a just-can’t-contain-the-happy dolphin smile. Also unable to be contained is an excess of /energy/ that seems to be spilling out at his toes in the form of bouncing in place. "Yo! C'mon in!" Ryan shouts, over the stereo system (one of the perks to being an audiokinetic: you are always heard). The narrow entryway deposits Micah into the living room first, with the kitchen at the other end, bringing Ryan around to face him as he turns, gripping his skillet by the handle, to step across to the counter where a ceramic, bright green plate layered with a paper towel awaits the first of his dripping latkes. Placing the potato pancake down with the spatula, he offers a lax smile and head nod, fringe of dark hair sweeping in front of his eyes. He wears a red apron over a blue-and-white striped v-neck and tattered jean shorts with frayed edges; not visible over the counter are his bare feet. Wielding his spatula to wave at Micah, "Yo! What's up? Jax and Hive aren't here yet, if you're looking for them." Micah lets himself in at the somewhat thrown-voice invitation, using his hip to push the door closed again behind him. “Oh! Oh, no, I didn’t even know they were comin’. I was actually lookin’ for Horus? Got somethin’ for him.” He pats at the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. “You’re lookin’ quite happy’n domestic-like tonight. How’s it goin’?” Ryan grins wide at Micah, dredging another pancake shape in flour before dropping it in the hot oil and setting it afloat back on the stove flame. "We all kind of live together, go back and forth between apartments. I promised /dinner/ tonight," he explains, performing his first flip. Glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow, "Word? Horus ain't here right now. Think there's video-games at Hive's or something. He loves to watch and preen while they play." A look of further curiosity lands his eyes on the messenger bag with its hidden contents. "Can't complain, just rockin' out and cookin' some dinner. S'up with you?" Micah nods, still grinning broadly. “Yeah, it’s kinda dormlike around here. I won’t interrupt him if he’s busy, though. Just finally got that communication software I was keepin’ an eye out for. One of my patients upgraded his device an’ didn’t need the old one anymore. Gotta love second-hand equipment!” The bag finds a new home, sitting on the couch, so Micah can wander to the kitchen without having to carry it around. He leans against the counter to facilitate conversation while Ryan is cooking. “Anythin’ I can help with, since I’m here?” "Take a seat on a stool," Ryan invites him, as a loud *pop* sends his spatula-holding hand waving frantic in the air. "Fuck," he grumbles, sucking at the burned skin from bubbling oil, rushing to the sink to run cold water over that area. While the soothing stream numbs the pain, "Woah, forreal? So y'mean, like, Hive and I won't be the only ones to know exactly what he's saying? That sounds...awesome." Pain forgotten, his exuberant grin dominates, with a head-nod bounce as he reaches to press the 'skip' button on his iPod, playing a song more upbeat. "Uh, yeah, actually." No explanation follows, he simply walks to a cabinet, grabs a small plate, heads to the fridge, tucks a ketchup bottle under his arm, then paces back to the counter and sets each in front of Micah. Opening a drawer, he produces a fork, spears his single, cooked latke, and *slams* it on the plate. "Try it and lie to me how good it is." Grin. “Whoa, you okay?” Micah asks as Ryan is attacked by a stray oil droplet. He does settle down and perch himself on the edge of a stool once Ryan seems to have all but forgotten the tiny burn. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Text-to-speech. It’s great you can do all these things just with an iPad an’ some specialised apps now. Used to be you had to get these big, expensive dedicated devices. I’m thinkin’ all it will take is a custom build-up on a stylus, probably a custom strap on the iPad case to help him carry it. Just a regular stand should set it up fine. Should get him goin’ right quick.” Micah giggles at the supplied latke and eyes it with exaggerated concern. “There a reason I’d have to lie about it…other than the fact that y’think ketchup’s a good idea to put on latkes?” Ryan stretches to switch the faucet to off without removing himself from standing in front of Micah. "Horus has gotten pretty good at maneuvering his beak. I /swear/ he knows how to groom hair better than any brush or comb." While not the same as stylus-writing, the erstwhile chef still sounds /enthused/ about this new prospect. "I mean, they're potatoes, right? You totally put ketchup on those. I think." Behind him, the stove starts smoking and an acrid, carcinogenic smell infiltrates the air -- latke burning. "SHIT." Question answered without words: Ryan is a novice in the kitchen. "I mean, I'm trying to follow the recipe Liam wrote out for me, but I'm kinda sucking." He turns on the vent above the stove, waving the black cloud from his face. Sadly, he also fetches the pan to the sink, to dumped charred remains of latke #2 into the garbage underneath the wash basin. Micah’s grin widens. “Oh, yeah, he’s a pretty first-class groomer. S’just…wanna make things as easy as possible to use when it’s gonna be a long-term solution. Ergonomics are important to avoid repetitive use injuries. I can only imagine the issues that would come of spending all day typing with your /face/ in an awkward position.” Ohno, burning! “What type of oil are you usin’? You gotta get somethin’ with a high smoke point for these.” He shakes his head /sadly/ at the ketchup bottle. “Honey…honey, no. You’re not makin’ French fries. There’s about a hundred things that can go on latkes an’ ketchup ain’t one. Usually go with apple sauce, or sour cream for the not-vegans. Had this one friend from Poland whose mom made this mushroom sauce that was /insane/. Can go with just salt if you don’t have any of those. But, yeah. No ketchup.” He does venture a taste-test of a bit of the latke in front of him. Small bite. "Huh, right." Ryan is not dismissive; he pays /earnest/ attention but once the word ergonomics comes into play, he loses partial-track of the conversation. "Guess I didn't think about how /uncomfortable/ it could be writing with your face all the time. It'd be really great if we could ever find a way to get him back his arms." He frowns, scraping the bottom of his skillet to remove blackened bits of burnt latke and fling them down the drain. Directing his frown at the ketchup bottle, he sighs. "Uh, I think we have like, greek yogurt? Does that work? I'll totally scarf mine with ketchup, but if /you/ are reacting this way, I can only imagine the heart-attack my latkes will give Jax." Eyeing his bowl of potato-mixture, he drops his skillet in the sink, holding up a finger to buy time. Roaming through the cabinets, he eventually finds the oil bottle. "Olive oil?" “Yeah, I’m workin’ on that, too. Harder to get the base parts for those than it was the iPad, at least second-hand. Ugh…oh…no pun intended.” Micah’s eyes scrunch closed for a minute. “No…um. Just go with plain salted, if there’s no apple sauce to be had. An’ I don’t know how much anyone else would even /notice/. Y’just lucked out an’ got the Jewish kid in here first.” He smirks at that, then hrms over the oil. “Olive oil will work fine. Peanut or grape seed oil is easier for holdin’ the heat steady if you’re makin’ a huge batch. Prob’ly what you’re doin’ is not usin’ /enough/ oil. Or not lettin’ it heat through before you add the potato mixture. That’s where people tend to go wrong.” "Hey, don't worry, we crack missing limb jokes /all the time/." That might be some of his inveterate lying peeking through there. Ryan laughs all the same, a sound and mood that reaches his eyes as well, and projects furthermore with a faint empathic push towards joviality. "Well, we have salt. And ketchup. How about uh, something to drink?" Reluctant to return to cooking, he drops his elbows on the counter and leans forward, a polite and conversational host. "Well, the sucker's definitely /hot/ enough. Maybe not enough? I mean…" He peers at the sink. "I burnt the last one." “Hmph, yeah, but at least they oughtta be /good/ jokes. That was just…accidental badpun. Blech.” For all that, Micah looks /amused/. “You got another deep fryin’ pan? I can show you… Can get away with…maybe 1/8 inch of oil for thin ones. Just wanna make sure you’re heatin’ the oil /first/. An’ then you gotta press ‘em thin enough so the middle cooks without burnin’ the outsides.” He realises he’s /fussing/ and stops. “Or I can cut the fussiness an’ sit an’ talk like a normal person. Whichever. Drinks are good.” "Too true. If it's gonna /sting/ it might as well be well-thought," Ryan agrees. "Let's start with drinks: alcoholic, or no?" It's only a matter of time before /some/ substance gets offered in this household; at least he keeps it legal with his first offer. (Augustus, the potcactus, sits pretty on the windowsill, though!) Ryan grabs the ketchup off from the counter to hide his offensive latke-condiment back in the fridge, throwing the door wide-open with a cool breath of air to show Micah the selection. "I might take you up with another frying pan though. So long as you don't tell the guys I /cheated/ later." “Is that cider?” Micah wiggles his fingers toward a collection of bottles with a familiar-looking label. “Because /cider/.” Apparently this is a good thing. “Oh, honey, no. It’s not cheatin’. You don’t leave first timers in a kitchen /alone/ with somethin’ that’s got a real traditional way of bein’ made. Ain’t a fair expectation. It’s less cheatin’ an’ more…coachin’. I got a lifetime of watchin’ my momma cook.” He gestures over his shoulder, as if to remind that he is, in fact, speaking of the past. "Yep!" Ryan returns the ketchup bottle to a top shelf, reaching lower to extract two cider bottles. He opens one for Micah too, fishing through short pockets for his car-keys, prying the lid off with the bottle-opener keychain attached. "Here you go, right cold." A napkin is pulled to serve as a coaster for the ring of condensation left by the bottom. "Cheers to Horus?" A *clank* follows before he has time to further react, then he tilts his cider back and takes a long pull, liquid pouring down the narrow neck of the bottle with a soft *glug*. "I like your thinking. But seriously. Don't tell them. I may have given the impression that I am a kickass cook and served a stint at a diner as a line-chef before I became /famous/." He leans in close for that, hand cupped over one side of his mouth, lending this admission a conspiratorial air. “Oh, glorious an’ perfect, thank you.” Micah’s grin widens as he taps his bottle to Ryan’s and takes a sip, himself. “I get it,” he replies to Ryan’s /conspiracy/, placing a finger to his lips as if shushing someone. “I take it this was an…embellished impression?” He wanders to the sink to wash his hands, since it looks like he’s going to be getting in on the cooking action eventually. Ryan laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, dried on the corner of his very red apron. "More like entirely fictive. I usually volunteer to wash /dishes/." And he thinks he's more slick than he is too: Hive is a telepath, duh. He side-steps to allow Micah the room to wash his hands as he steps around into kitchen territory, fetching another apron from a drawer to toss at him when he looks up. This earns a snicker from Micah. “All the telepaths wanderin’ around, an’ you’re still makin’ up background stories? That’s kinda entertainin’ actually. Inveterate story-teller.” He is back to laughing near-immediately as he catches the apron. Because it is /so/ going to help protect his lightly bleach-splattered T-shirt and patched, washed-out old jeans. He puts it on anyhow. “Alrighty. Break out the pan an’ I’ll show you how it’s done. Get ya doin’ ‘em on your own after awhile an’ it won’t even be an /embellishment/ that you were makin’ things.” The latkes instructional session is /on/.