panic! at the basquiat (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ladyjaida) wrote in ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} shoebox_project,@ 2007-09-26 15:25:00 |
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Well, we know that we promised a new part when everyone had fully digested Book 7, and it's been a couple of months. But let's face it: that book was pretty thick, and books are in general fibrous to begin with, and only a goat could digest a book of that size that quickly. ALSO, dorkorific had the absolute gall to get on with her life and move halfway across the country, while I had to edit a book and also go back to school.
However, we like to think of the next part as a little choo choo train, chugging along a hill of two parts guilt and five parts shame, towards the inevitable goal of actually putting a part out and being able to feel free of said shame and guilt for probably a whole two minutes.
In the spirit of allaying all your fears: have a caboose. Also,dorkorific would like to remind you all to watch The Office on Thursday, September 27th, at 9/8 central. And because she's holding all the images for this part hostage, I am telling you all to please, please watch The Office.
"This says 'overdue,'" Sirius says, sauntering into the kitchen with a pile of James's mail. "You're going to have to pay extra, you know."
"Gnaa!" yelps James, dropping the spatula. "What are you doing here? How did you get in? What do you want?'
"The door doesn't lock," Sirius says reasonably, "which is a thing you should remedy, by the by. He Who Must Not Even Be Thought About aside, who knows what kids of disreputable characters lurk about these parts? They might steal your," he casts about briefly, "your only chair, or your collection of potless pot-lids, or your toaster."
"The toaster's broken," James says, sucking resentfully on his scorched fingers. "What do you want?"
"Only the pleasure of your company, my little petunia," says Sirius, dropping the mail on the floor. "I haven't seen you in yonks."
"I noticed," James says. "Absence making the heart grow fonder."
"Yonks," Sirius repeats. He peers interestedly over James's shoulder, at the stove. Up close he smells like petrol and wet puppy. "What is this? Is this food?"
"It's tagliatelle and mushrooms in a mascarpone-parmesan sauce," James says, pointing haughtily at the cookbook. Actually, it is whatever noodles were in the pantry in whatever kind of cheese was in the freezer. Improvisation, after all, is the hallmark of great cuisine. He did at least scrape the green bits off the cheese.
"It looks like something from under a log," Sirius says, clearly intrigued. "Can I have it?"
James remembers, almost fondly, the last time Sirius ate something that looked like it came from under a log. It was, in fact, something that came from under a log. Afterwards, Sirius vomited in James's pillow. Those were the days.
"Consider your life, mate," Sirius says now, pityingly. He sticks a blackened finger in it to taste, ignoring James's little mewl of protest. "'Mascarpone-parmesan sauce?' What's next? Eau de Truffle Ears? It needs pepper, too."
"It's…like cheese," James points out. "I mean, they're both…cheeses. I think. What the hell is a Truffle Ear?"
"I believe mascarpone is actually a kind of pastry," Sirius says, rattling through drawers. "Or am I thinking of marzipan? Or marmalade? It doesn't matter, because this doesn't taste like cheese; it tastes like domesticity. It tastes like Fat Babies On The Way. Where's your bloody pepper?"
"Who's having fat babies?" says Lily, emerging from the bedroom in one of James's t-shirts. There are dark circles under her eyes and her hair is all sticky-up from napping: she arrived home a couple of hours ago, moaned, "This day," and before James could say so much as "Ah yes and how was it?" collapsed on the mattress which is their only bed, snoring like a champion. "Evening, Sirius, haven't seen you in ages. Oh dear, James, are you cooking? I wish you wouldn't."
"I told him," Sirius says virtuously. "Well, I said 'more pepper,' which will mask the taste of whatever vile stew he produces." He holds up a little bottle. "Or curry powder? What do you think?"
"We could get a takeaway," Lily coaxes, trying to pry the spatula out of James's hand. "We could make toast!"
"Except your toaster's broken," Sirius points out, sliding one of James's battered tin forks into his pocket. "I need cutlery," he explains.
"Please," Lily implores, clutching James's lapels and gazing up into his face. "Please don't put yourself through this again. Don't put us through this again."
How sharper than a serpent's tooth, James thinks darkly, is a woman who does not trust you with noodles.
dorkorific had the absolute gall to get on with her life and move halfway across the country, while I had to edit a book and also go back to school. However, we like to think of the next part as a little choo choo train, chugging along a hill of two parts guilt and five parts shame, towards the inevitable goal of actually putting a part out and being able to feel free of said shame and guilt for probably a whole two minutes.
In the spirit of allaying all your fears: have a caboose. Also,
dorkorific would like to remind you all to watch The Office on Thursday, September 27th, at 9/8 central. And because she's holding all the images for this part hostage, I am telling you all to please, please watch The Office. "This says 'overdue,'" Sirius says, sauntering into the kitchen with a pile of James's mail. "You're going to have to pay extra, you know."
"Gnaa!" yelps James, dropping the spatula. "What are you doing here? How did you get in? What do you want?'
"The door doesn't lock," Sirius says reasonably, "which is a thing you should remedy, by the by. He Who Must Not Even Be Thought About aside, who knows what kids of disreputable characters lurk about these parts? They might steal your," he casts about briefly, "your only chair, or your collection of potless pot-lids, or your toaster."
"The toaster's broken," James says, sucking resentfully on his scorched fingers. "What do you want?"
"Only the pleasure of your company, my little petunia," says Sirius, dropping the mail on the floor. "I haven't seen you in yonks."
"I noticed," James says. "Absence making the heart grow fonder."
"Yonks," Sirius repeats. He peers interestedly over James's shoulder, at the stove. Up close he smells like petrol and wet puppy. "What is this? Is this food?"
"It's tagliatelle and mushrooms in a mascarpone-parmesan sauce," James says, pointing haughtily at the cookbook. Actually, it is whatever noodles were in the pantry in whatever kind of cheese was in the freezer. Improvisation, after all, is the hallmark of great cuisine. He did at least scrape the green bits off the cheese.
"It looks like something from under a log," Sirius says, clearly intrigued. "Can I have it?"
James remembers, almost fondly, the last time Sirius ate something that looked like it came from under a log. It was, in fact, something that came from under a log. Afterwards, Sirius vomited in James's pillow. Those were the days.
"Consider your life, mate," Sirius says now, pityingly. He sticks a blackened finger in it to taste, ignoring James's little mewl of protest. "'Mascarpone-parmesan sauce?' What's next? Eau de Truffle Ears? It needs pepper, too."
"It's…like cheese," James points out. "I mean, they're both…cheeses. I think. What the hell is a Truffle Ear?"
"I believe mascarpone is actually a kind of pastry," Sirius says, rattling through drawers. "Or am I thinking of marzipan? Or marmalade? It doesn't matter, because this doesn't taste like cheese; it tastes like domesticity. It tastes like Fat Babies On The Way. Where's your bloody pepper?"
"Who's having fat babies?" says Lily, emerging from the bedroom in one of James's t-shirts. There are dark circles under her eyes and her hair is all sticky-up from napping: she arrived home a couple of hours ago, moaned, "This day," and before James could say so much as "Ah yes and how was it?" collapsed on the mattress which is their only bed, snoring like a champion. "Evening, Sirius, haven't seen you in ages. Oh dear, James, are you cooking? I wish you wouldn't."
"I told him," Sirius says virtuously. "Well, I said 'more pepper,' which will mask the taste of whatever vile stew he produces." He holds up a little bottle. "Or curry powder? What do you think?"
"We could get a takeaway," Lily coaxes, trying to pry the spatula out of James's hand. "We could make toast!"
"Except your toaster's broken," Sirius points out, sliding one of James's battered tin forks into his pocket. "I need cutlery," he explains.
"Please," Lily implores, clutching James's lapels and gazing up into his face. "Please don't put yourself through this again. Don't put us through this again."
How sharper than a serpent's tooth, James thinks darkly, is a woman who does not trust you with noodles.
