orca_de_wils | Reading

Title: The Trouble With Harry
Creator:

Azar
Rating: General
Word Count/Length/Size: 26,534 words
Creator's Summary: Abby's past and present collide when she and a missing Admiral they're searching for turn out to have a mutual friend--the Doctor.
Characters/Pairings: Marth Jones, Harry Sullivan, Abby Sciuto, Ducky Mallard, Ziva David, Jenny Shepard, Leon Vance, Original Characters, The Tenth Doctor, Anthony DiNozzo, Jethro Gibbs, Timothy McGee
Warnings/Notes: Crossover with NCIS

Reasons for reccing: It's definitely not necessary to be familiar with NCIS to enjoy this - I've never seen an episode. It's also not necessary to have read the series it's part of - I didn't know it was part of a series until I went to see if it was on AO3.

It's the sort of story the Doctor tends to get involved with, but what makes it extra interesting is seeing it from the point of view of both people who've never come into contact with the Doctor, and someone who previously has.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55183

selenak

In which there is added poignancy due to the sole good RL news these past ten days, i.e. the Artemis II moon mission, which I admit to following avidly.

( Are you ready? )

Current Mood: pensive
Current Location: Munich

musesfool

Today's poem:

July
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

The figs we ate wrapped in bacon.
The gelato we consumed greedily:
coconut milk, clove, fresh pear.
How we'd dump hot espresso on it
just to watch it melt, licking our spoons
clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat,
the salt we'd suck off our fingers,
the eggs we'd watch get beaten
'til they were a dizzying bright yellow,
how their edges crisped in the pan.
The pink salt blossom of prosciutto
we pulled apart with our hands, melted
on our eager tongues. The green herbs
with goat cheese, the aged brie paired
with a small pot of strawberry jam,
the final sour cherry we kept politely
pushing onto each other's plate, saying,
No, you. But it's so good. No, it's yours.
How I finally put an end to it, plucked it
from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth.
How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.
How good it felt: to want something and
pretend you don't, and to get it anyway.

***

I caught up on Abbott Elementary last night and ( spoilers )

***

Current Mood: shocked
Current Music: Feelin' Alright - Joe Cocker

denise posting in

dw_maintenance

I keep forgetting to post about this: we've been troubleshooting the "missing notifications" problem for the past few days. (Well, I say "we", really I mean Mark and Robby; I'm just the amanuensis.) It's been one of those annoying loops of "find a logical explanation for what could be causing the problem, fix that thing, observe that the problem gets better for some people but doesn't go away completely, go back to step one and start again", sigh.

Mark is hauling out the heavy debugging ordinance to try to find the root cause. Once he's done building all the extra logging tools he needs, he'll comment to this entry. After he does, if you find a comment that should have gone to your inbox and sent an email notification but didn't, leave him a link to the comment that should have sent the notification, as long as the comment itself was made after Mark says he's collecting them. (I'd wait and post this after he gets the debug code in but I need to go to sleep and he's not sure how long it will take!)

We're sorry about the hassle! Irregular/sporadic issues like this are really hard to troubleshoot because it's impossible to know if they're fixed or if they're just not happening while you're looking. With luck, this will give us enough information to figure out the root cause for real this time.

musesfool

Yesterday, after I logged off work, I made these banana blueberry muffins, which used up the last of all the fruit that I got last week in the wrong grocery order (well, the raspberries got moldy before I could use them, so they just got thrown out, but I used the strawbs, the bluebs, and the bananas in the end). They're good!

Then this afternoon, I tried out this vanilla cupcake recipe, which I had originally planned to make for Easter. As written, it makes 40 mini cupcakes, so if I make it next weekend to take to work on Tuesday, which is what I am thinking, I will double it. And make that KAB whipped ganache frosting. I might do that tomorrow, just because I can, once the last of the ground meat I received last weekend is thawed and used to make meatballs. I have ravioli in the freezer so I can free up even more space (I used the frozen tortellini last night). Anyway, I want to see if these vanilla cupcakes really do stay moist for a few days. I already replaced vanilla with funfetti for Christmas, but I feel like you should always have a good vanilla cupcake recipe in your back pocket, and the one I like for cake was never the best for cupcakes.

Now I've got a chicken roasting in the oven and it smells so good.

Anyway, here's today's poem:

Hurry
by Marie Howe

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.
Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry—
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.
And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.

***

Current Mood: hungry
Current Music: Rangers vs Stars on tv

musesfool

Today's poem:

The Other Woman

as I picture her
she has no basil
no cumin
no sun-hardened hyssop
nor sage around her eyes

she never catnips
but laughs comfrey
tansy with a primula smile

as I think of her
she's angelica
foxglove and jasmine
somewhat peppermint
not letting you see
all her saffron at once

one day I’ll meet her
that rue woman
that wild indigo teasel
somewhere neutral
free of woodruff and of dropwort
some summer savory

she's the nose
set to lavender
eye full of sesame
ear ringing rosemary

she's wind
through wild thyme

--Twyla M. Hansen

*

Current Mood: full
Current Music: Mets pregame

selenak

The first three episodes of The Testaments have been dropped in my part of the world on Disney +. It's an adapatation of Margaret Atwood's novel of the same name, which is a decades later written sequel to her famous dystopian classic The Handmaid's Tale; when it was published, I reviewed it here. Just to make their lives more complicated, though, the show is also a sequel to the tv series The Handmaid's Tale. The first (very good) season of which I watched, but not the later ones, as word of mouth about diminishing quality and lack of time have detained me, but I did osmose this presents a problem because not only is the backstory the showin its later seasons developed for one of the central characters (Aunt Lydia) very different from her backstory in the novel, but the timeline of another central character is different as well. With this in mind, my spoilery reaction to the first three episodes is beneath the cut. Above cut: those first three episodes are well acted and produced and make some interesting choices re: adapting the source material - and I don't mean "interesting" as a euphemism for bad -, but haven't revealed yet how they'll solve the Lydia problem.

( The perils of being a female teenager in Gilead )

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Munich

musesfool

Today's poem, for which I had to turn on the rich text editor and still couldn't get the spacing quite right sigh:

Seaside Improvisation
by Richard Siken

I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark,
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
the book on the table is about Spain,
the windows are painted shut.
Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns
of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,
counting birds.
You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.
You do the math, you expect the trouble.
The seaside town. The electric fence.
Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone
of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.
A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,
a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still
hasn't hit bottom.

*

Current Mood: coughing, still

musesfool

I was taken with the need to do an Orphan Black rewatch and there's so much I forgot! Tatiana Maslany is so good, which you all knew, and the supporting cast is *chef's kiss*. It makes very few missteps, and watching in marathon fashion means even storylines I disliked originally (CASTOR) work much better. It's on Netflix, so if you are in the mood and don't mind the grossout body horror, it's a good watch.

And this poem seemed fitting:

This Poem Will Get Me On Some Kind of Watchlist
by Jessie Lochrie

I'm dancing at a nightclub
when someone behind me
places a hand on my shoulder.
I assume it's a friend until
the hand slides down my chest.

Boiling with gin and rage
I grab his wrist, whip around,
and punch him in the jaw.
It doesn't land well—
I've never hit anyone before—
so I punch him in the gut,
just for good measure.

I look at him doubled over and spit
Never do that to a woman again,
and then I run. My friends laugh in the cab:
You punched a guy!
but I sit silent and burning.

In Crown Heights, in Union Square,
in South Williamsburg: men leer and
whistle and smack their lips.
I ignore them, or flip them off,
or tell them I'm married.

When they purr que guapa
I yell callate and they all laugh.
I can't tell if they're laughing at me
for being a white girl speaking bad
Spanish, or at the idea that anything
I say might actually shut them up.

In my impotent rage I dream of a world
where I am not public property. I would
start wars for my right to walk down a street
unafraid, a thousand wars for a single day
in which my body belongs to me alone.
An army raised against each cat call. A bullet
for every man who ever told me to smile.

***

Current Mood: still coughing
Current Music: Mets losing to the Dbacks

sasheneskywalker posting in

fancake

Fandom: Naruto
Pairings/Characters: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Rating: Mature
Length: 6,014 words
Creator Links:

Askerian
Theme: forced marriage, arranged marriage, asexual & demisexual characters

Summary: "Oh," Izuna said -- delicately, while studiously reading his folder, "I'm afraid we need someone with a ... strong personality for Naohime."

"Why's that?" Hashirama replied, just as painfully polite.

The daimyo's mediator kept watching them and scratching little pointy words in his notebook.

"Because if your man doesn't prove that he's dangerous and has the personality to use it on her if she pushes him, it's going to turn abusive," Madara drawled.

Hashirama stared at him for a blank second. The daimyo's envoy stopped writing; even his stone-faced Aburame bodyguard arched her eyebrows over her darkened spectacles.

Tobirama stretched out across the table without another word to take back one of the folders Izuna had spread around him.

--

The daimyo is over the whole Uchiha/Senju war. They're going to become one people if they know what's good for them.

Madara hates it enough without having to marry a woman too.

Reccer's Notes: Fun oneshot! Hot, with a really interesting relationship dynamic, and I also love how it touches on gray asexuality <3

Fanwork Links: What Brings Us Together

beatrice_otter posting in

fancake

Fandom: Bridgerton
Pairings/Characters: Anthony/Kate
Rating: teen
Length: 46k
Creator Links:

ronandhermy
Theme: Arranged marriage, AU, fork in the road, marriage of convenience, happy endings, marriage

Summary: At the age of eighteen Kate Sharma, after sending a desperate letter to her father's homeland, receives aid in the form of a letter from Lady Danbury who has arranged a match for the young woman. With only a letter, a promise and hope, Kate takes her mother and sister and sails to England where she is to marry Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Reccer's Notes: I really enjoyed this take on how Kate and Anthony might have met when they were younger, and all the changes it would have brought.

Fanwork Links: A Red Thread of Convenience

musesfool

Today's poem:

An Epistemology of Planets
by Annie Dillard

Mercury

A brook runs on all night;
a book, shut,
still tells itself a story.
So you, out of thought,
you, forgotten Mercury,
still spin and spend the circles of your fury.

Venus

Evenings, after I've eaten
dessert, you rise, you wear
your barest, shining skin.

Later, mornings, you up
and do it again.

Do you think I've forgotten so soon?

Earth

Planets, alone, and grieving,
look who you're running with:
look at our baby-blue planet the earth
and all of the people, waving.

Mars

Mars keeps its dignity,
its networks of cool.
Certain photographs reveal
an air of longing, still.

Jupiter

Swings, spattered
by shadows of Jovian moons:
Io, Europa, Callisto,
the giant, Ganymede.
Companionable, each

nonetheless keeps

the perfect arc of his distance.

Saturn

         It is to you I come in my dream,
you, dancing alone in the dark, light-heart,
       asleep inside your spinning hat!

Uranus

Uranus, cold face,
old rock and ice,
remembers a song
and sings it once
round the dark, twice.

Neptune

Banished, Neptune,
luminous, green,
sleeps, and dreams of the sun.
Awake, he holds her round
as tight as he can.

Pluto

Spends twenty years
wandering in Cancer,
that old celestial
crab. Takes years to touch
carapace, jointed foot
on jointed leg; nudges
mandibles, roving, awed,
in every season.
                          Getting to know
you, still, I find you clear-eyed,
cloistered, clawed.

***

Current Mood: coughing
Current Music: Mets vs Dbacks on tv

musesfool

Today's poem:

Great Things Have Happened

We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.

"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.

Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you've never visited
before, when the bread doesn't taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.

--Alden Nowlan

*

Current Mood: awake

musesfool

Happy Easter if you celebrate! Happy Sunday if not.

Here is today's poem:

Sunflower Astronaut
by Charlie Espinosa

[commence imbibition]

I begin my log in the seed capsule. There is little to report.
I am dormant. I am alone. I am drifting through the void.
Sometimes, I wonder what lies beyond the vacuum-sealed walls.
Sometimes, I swear I hear a very faint, very beautiful, song.

I have landed. Surface: moist. Atmosphere: favorable. Competition: unknown.
I discard the shriveled seed coat. Every cell in my body pulses with life.
Enzymes fly like meteorites and I emerge, gasping from my pod.

[commence germination]

There is no need to waste time with instructions.
I open my endosperm sack and gorge on the stored feast of sugar.
Invigorated, my radicle, that intrepid probe, plunges into the depths.
For the first time I taste, no absorb, the rich minerals of the new world.

My cotyledons unfurl like two green sails into the light.
Ah, sweet solar wind, filling my chlorophyll with galactic energy.
Gradually, I establish myself here, growing up and down, in light and dark.

[commence vegetative growth]

Forgive me. I have not been carefully logging my progress.
The divisions, they simply became too numerous to catalogue.
Besides, I was in a kind of trance, conducting the photo-symphony–
Keeping my glucose stocks fat and multiplying my meristems.

The important point is that I am tall with a well-defined stalk and enviable leaves.
There are other sunflowers too, and a rather impudent beast who is fond of digging.
All in all, I have adapted well. I am happy. Though I don’t care for the beast.

[commence ripening]

For months I have studied the sun. My head of bracts tracked its arc like an antenna.
Now I am a sun, with a yellow crown and a hot core of disk florets and pollen.
I, too, emit signals to orbiting bodies who come and go with fertile stardust.
Was this my mission, to set into motion a new solar system?

I merge with another star. My head sags under the weight of our fruits.
The inflorescence fades. The wind scatters my wilted petals over the floor.
It has become difficult to know where I end and where this planet begins.

[commence decomposition]

The digging beast beheaded me and made off with my seeds.
The sparrows peck at what’s left. Somehow, I don’t seem to mind.
Each day, a little darker, a little colder, siphons me away.

I said before I began alone, but now I remember something else:
Being a seed among other seeds encircled in a halo of yellow rays.

*

I made gyoza! #mygyoza They might not look that great but they are delicious!

*

Current Mood: full
Current Music: Mets vs Giants on tv

musesfool

Today's poem:

After After
by Kristi Maxwell

This was after we moved into pencil drawings of tree houses on stilts, but before the cows grazed in the diminishing field of the freckle signifying our face.

This was after a refusal of berries too close to rotting, but before self-consciousness about metaphor.

This was after the butter-soaked collard greens, but before we deflated the ache as if it were something reusable and easily stowed.

This was after the pimple you mistook for jam and, obviously, failed to wipe off, but before the last comma, which we obstinately misplaced.

This was after the bite mark, but before the tongue.

This was after the nosegay protecting the nose from the plague-stench, but before the video of the autopsy of the woman with a bra and panties matching your own.

This was after lushness, but before lushness.

This was after the ghosts caught fire and after their flimsy collage of light, but before the building conceived space and before the hard labor and before the dead men.

This was after the green shoe busted and the wool shoe, but before the description of a bus-struck owl.

This was after we knew, but long before saying.

*

Current Mood: okay
Current Music: Go! by Santigold feat. Karen O

selenak

Mind you, the non-fannish world feels like one long Good Friday for humanity these days, but still: time to share the annual joy of our Franconian Easter Wells. (And bridges.)

( Lots more eggs and wells beneath the cut )

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Bamberg

selenak

In which Boyd becomes even more my favourite among the new characters, Kelly gets herself a mission, and Ed.... but that would be telling.

( Spoilers are on the case )

Current Mood: chipper
Current Location: Bamberg

beatrice_otter posting in

fancake

Fandom: Star Wars
Pairings/Characters: Jaster Mereel/Jon Antilles
Rating: mature
Length: 126k
Creator Links:

blackkat
Theme: arranged marriage, novel-length, epic works, worldbuilding, psychic powers, never met in canon, marriage of convenience, cultural differences, AU, fork in the road.

Summary: A week after an attack that nearly killed him and his son, Jaster Mereel finds Mostross dead on a battlefield. His killer is a Jedi, grievously wounded, who Jaster takes into his care. By Mandalorian tradition, Jon Antilles owes him a life-debt, and Jaster is cunning enough not to let such a thing slip away.

It's meant to be an entirely political arrangement. It doesn't stay that way for long.

Reccer's Notes: Blackkat is a very prolific author who does an excellent job of taking medium-obscure Star Wars characters and doing really interesting things with them. Jaster Mereel is Jango Fett's adoptive father, and the Mandalore. (In canon, he was killed by Montross.) Jon Antilles is a Jedi who was abused by his Master growing up, but also learned some really obscure and difficult Force tricks from her, and spends his life wandering the galaxy alone as the Force wills. You don't have to know much more than that, as blackkat weaves a really interesting story about them, fleshing them both out deeply from what canon gives us.

Fanwork Links: trade your heart for bones to know

musesfool

So my big plan to make gyoza this weekend was almost derailed earlier when I received someone else's grocery order in total, and zero percent of my grocery order. My fridge is now filled with THREE DOZEN EXTRA EGGS I did not order, along with some ground beef, some ridiculously expensive stew beef (which I will have to figure out how to cook so it is not well done, because well-done beef gives me the yucks - marinating and roasting might be the way), an enormous container of Fair Life lactose-free milk, some lovely fruit I would not have ordered yet (not in season, but I will use it) and some KERRY GOLD BUTTER (another thing I would never order because I'm not MADE OF MONEY). But no scallions, cabbage, or ground pork.

So I got on the phone with Stop and Shop and the CSR was very good and got my order re-ordered, and it was just delivered, so it looks like ~~meat~~ gyoza are back on the menu, boys! Though I do not have room to make the chocolate frosted vanilla cupcakes I was planning to make since there's no room in the fridge for anything else right now. I just used up 8 eggs I already had to make a frittata since I need the space (so I have a total of FOUR DOZEN EGGS right now, which would be fantastic if I were boiling and coloring them for Easter, but I am not. or if I needed them to make Swiss meringue frosting, which I also do not).

I'm very glad i didn't do the extra Instacart order from Key Food I thought about last night, because Stop and Shop doesn't have gyoza wrappers and Key Food does, but they look pretty easy to make, so I will spend time tomorrow doing all that. And maybe I will make those egg rollups on Monday for the week so I can use up more eggs. I guess we'll see!

Today's poem is very far removed from *gestures* all of that!

Wilderness
by Lorine Niedecker

You are the man
You are my other country
and I find it hard going

You are the prickly pear
You are the sudden violent storm

the torrent to raise the river
to float the wounded doe

* * *

Current Mood: relieved
Current Music: I Don't Wanna Know - Fleetwood Mac

musesfool

I made my appointment to return my old modem and router for 2:15 pm today before I decided to take today off, because 2:15 put it right in the middle of my lunch hour. However, having taken the day off, 2:15 became the worst possible time to do it. But it's done! Not without a slight misadventure. I put the address in for a Lyft and doublechecked the confirmation text and was like, okay, 74-10 Austin Street. But when we arrived at 74-10 Austin Street, it was a residential building. And I'm like, I know it's just up the block there and the guy is like, but this is the address you requested. So I get out and start walking and I'm like, I know it's here, I've been here before, where the fuck is it??? So I recheck my phone and the address is...71-40. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles everything said 74-10, but it did not. Brain, why are you like this???

Anyway, the equipment return was quick and smooth, and Shake Shack was 2 doors down, so I had Shake Shack for lunch and it was all good.

Here's today's poem:

Five passages between uncertain territories

1
The wind has got trapped in the chimney;
its plaintive howls crash, slash and rumble
all the way to the backbone and back again.
Walrus angels ride their ancient motorbikes
on the Wall of Death.

2
I burrow deep into heretic soil, lie quietly
close to roots and corms, listen to the sounds
of critters in the field, beasties by the roadside:
their adventure songs of rescue, revelation,
revival and sunrise.

3
Because you travel the undiscovered country,
carrying the black flag, mallet and stake,
I offer you heartware – I stay tuned in all right;
but you know I don't trust you any farther
than to the rim of the map.

4
I lost my little mittens and my hands are cold.
All around, purple pearls and snailshells lie
scattered like random pebbles; I pick them up
gingerly, clovefully. I count them three times,
then once more for luck.

5
Cloaked in furs and feathers I shall sojourn
in abandoned observatories, hurdy-gurdy
power stations, mills by mystic lakesides,
stitching tales of hope and hardship, breaking
every bone in the book.

--Jane Røken

***