Ysanne Isard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iceheart_imperial) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2020-07-08 09:39 pm
iceheart_imperial) wrote in maskormenacelogs2020-07-08 09:39 pm
To Prepare a Meal [Closed]
WHO: Yehn Quryoja and Ysanne Isard. (Theoretically a guest star, too)
WHERE: Isard's Apartment
WHEN: Evening of the 8th
WHAT: Ysanne Isard attempts to make dinner. Bear in mind she once ruled a galaxy.
WARNINGS: PG-13 for romance and discussions of emotions and sexuality.
There hadn't been time, in the old life, to cook for herself. The business of running a galaxy-wide intelligence network, and then an Empire of tens of millions of planets had not given her time for a hobby of any variety. Food had been a utilitarian thing, a convenient fuel source. It hadn't meant anything. And since arriving on Earth, her efforts to prepare her own meals had extended to opening cans and ordering from the local restaurants. She was developing a particular fondness for Indian food.
But Yenh was coming, and she wanted to do it right. She had studied the texts on how one properly romanced a partner. She had quickly determined that the one titled 'Cosmopolitan' was, somehow, guessing. And not particularly well. She found a lot of the supposed authority sources quick irritating. But one piece of advice she could agree with was the idea that cooking a meal for one's paramour was considered a good thing.
So she was trying to make pizza, and she'd seldom been so frustrated. She stood in the kitchen of her spartan apartment, flour covering the apron tied around her waist. She hadn't noticed the flour in her hair, nor would she in anywhere near time. She was fairly certain she had followed the instructions correctly. The dough was...uncooperative. She tried, for the ninth time, to get it to assume the perfectly rounded shape it was supposed to. When that failed, she pulled open the drawer and beat it savagely with a meat tenderizer, causing more flour to float into the air.
She didn't swear often. But she did now, in several of the languages at her command from the old universe.
She took a deep breath, folding hands in front of her face. "I organized a coup d'etat, I can handle this." She worked at the dough, bit by bit, finally arranging it into something that approached an oval, but more accurately approached 'screw it.' She then slathered on the sauce, probably significantly more than she needed to.
Definitely significantly more than she needed to. Oh dear.
So the sauce was nearly reaching the rim, but surely that was fine? In any event, the large amount of shredded cheese - that had been easy enough - would surely contain it. Then she looked at the various ingredients Yenh had said she enjoyed. She arranged them on the pizza in a manner that seemed to make sense - and didn't have the haphazard arrangement she'd seen in pictures. By the time she was done, it looked less like a pizza and more like a game of battleship you could eat.
She shoved it in the oven, checking the fridge. The lemonade she'd squeezed herself was in there. She was quite proud of that. The store bought one she'd gotten after that turned out to be probably far too sweet was there, too.
She glanced at the clock and swore again in excellent Corellian. She rushed over to the stereo, turning on the jazz-y playlist she'd put together. A lot of Melody Gardot. Then she moved to light the candles that she'd placed in a number of locations. 'Ambiance' wasn't a word in her lexicon either.
The last thing she remembered as the knock came at the door was to work off the apron and throw it, in a small shower of flour, onto the coatrack. She'd informed the bodyguards at the ground entrance, and on her floor to be very inconspicuous and under no circumstances whatsoever hassle Yenh or even slow her down, under penalty of being sent to remote Alaska.
Her hair still had flour in it.
WHERE: Isard's Apartment
WHEN: Evening of the 8th
WHAT: Ysanne Isard attempts to make dinner. Bear in mind she once ruled a galaxy.
WARNINGS: PG-13 for romance and discussions of emotions and sexuality.
There hadn't been time, in the old life, to cook for herself. The business of running a galaxy-wide intelligence network, and then an Empire of tens of millions of planets had not given her time for a hobby of any variety. Food had been a utilitarian thing, a convenient fuel source. It hadn't meant anything. And since arriving on Earth, her efforts to prepare her own meals had extended to opening cans and ordering from the local restaurants. She was developing a particular fondness for Indian food.
But Yenh was coming, and she wanted to do it right. She had studied the texts on how one properly romanced a partner. She had quickly determined that the one titled 'Cosmopolitan' was, somehow, guessing. And not particularly well. She found a lot of the supposed authority sources quick irritating. But one piece of advice she could agree with was the idea that cooking a meal for one's paramour was considered a good thing.
So she was trying to make pizza, and she'd seldom been so frustrated. She stood in the kitchen of her spartan apartment, flour covering the apron tied around her waist. She hadn't noticed the flour in her hair, nor would she in anywhere near time. She was fairly certain she had followed the instructions correctly. The dough was...uncooperative. She tried, for the ninth time, to get it to assume the perfectly rounded shape it was supposed to. When that failed, she pulled open the drawer and beat it savagely with a meat tenderizer, causing more flour to float into the air.
She didn't swear often. But she did now, in several of the languages at her command from the old universe.
She took a deep breath, folding hands in front of her face. "I organized a coup d'etat, I can handle this." She worked at the dough, bit by bit, finally arranging it into something that approached an oval, but more accurately approached 'screw it.' She then slathered on the sauce, probably significantly more than she needed to.
Definitely significantly more than she needed to. Oh dear.
So the sauce was nearly reaching the rim, but surely that was fine? In any event, the large amount of shredded cheese - that had been easy enough - would surely contain it. Then she looked at the various ingredients Yenh had said she enjoyed. She arranged them on the pizza in a manner that seemed to make sense - and didn't have the haphazard arrangement she'd seen in pictures. By the time she was done, it looked less like a pizza and more like a game of battleship you could eat.
She shoved it in the oven, checking the fridge. The lemonade she'd squeezed herself was in there. She was quite proud of that. The store bought one she'd gotten after that turned out to be probably far too sweet was there, too.
She glanced at the clock and swore again in excellent Corellian. She rushed over to the stereo, turning on the jazz-y playlist she'd put together. A lot of Melody Gardot. Then she moved to light the candles that she'd placed in a number of locations. 'Ambiance' wasn't a word in her lexicon either.
The last thing she remembered as the knock came at the door was to work off the apron and throw it, in a small shower of flour, onto the coatrack. She'd informed the bodyguards at the ground entrance, and on her floor to be very inconspicuous and under no circumstances whatsoever hassle Yenh or even slow her down, under penalty of being sent to remote Alaska.
Her hair still had flour in it.