2020-02-25 - Common Market

It is a briskly cold, windy and snowy evening, and any right-minded soul should surely be tucked away in a warm home, maybe with a fireplace and some hot chocolate. At least, that's where Corey would like to be right now. Fortunately, he's one of only a handful of people who have made the trek out to Safeway this evening, the aisles empty of all but a few shoppers and bored staff members.

The student chef can be found wandering around where he thought he would be able to find empty jars, only to see that the baking section has been moved and he's staring at rows of cereals instead. Cue frown.

Vyv would also like to be tucked away in a warm home, maybe with a fireplace and some hot chocolate. Preferably his warm home and fireplace and hot chocolate. And a book. Or maybe extremely terrible television shows. Certainly he would prefer not to be at Safeway, but needs must when one's larder has betrayed one by failing to include all ingredients necessary for what one particularly wishes to cook. Presumably this includes some sort of meat in this case, because the chef is moving through the meat refrigeration set perpendicular to the dry food aisles, on what looks like his way to the butcher's counter.

He stops to stare balefully at a particular set of shrink wrapped trays, picking one up to eye it more closely. "Really?" he asks the world at large, "If one can't be bothered to put together one's own shish kabobs, one oughtn't be allowed near anything capable of cooking them." He drops it back onto its pile and turns to move on, pausing as he catches sight of a familiar frown down the aisle he's passing. "Mr. Jones," he greets, far more directed, but without raising his voice one decibel more than required to make it carry to the younger man, and flicks a glance across the items arrayed before him. "Claims to the contrary notwithstanding, I assure you that is not in fact the breakfast of champions."

Just about to turn and head for the next aisle, Corey is caught by the sound of a familiar voice - yes, very familiar, and almost certainly correct with regards to shish kabobs. Though why Safeway is stocking up on pre-made kabobs during the middle of winter is anyone's guess; they're more of a 'grill outside in the warm' sort of food. Retail, who knows.

Then as that voice addresses him directly, Mr. Jones turns his attention towards Vyv, offering a cheerful smile despite his jar-related disappointments. "I'm sure that's the case, chef. Only, I came in for jam jars, and they were stored here last time I saw them. Which was, like, last Thursday." He clearly is not a fan of how often the store changes around the displays.

Presumably people who can't be bothered to make the kabobs don't pay attention to things like the proper season and place to grill them, either. God, maybe they're trying to microwave them. It would probably serve them right. By serving them 100% wrong.

"Mm. Much better choice," Vyv allows, and flicks a glance upward, running it along the hanging signs. "One of the few things they're extremely unlikely to manage to ruin somehow. ...Aisle 5, I think, today." This is to the other side of the meat counter, level with the dairy cases, heading generally toward their bakery. One of the few things that never moves. Possibly not something wise to let the patissier get too near. "What are you making?"

"Mmn, I dunno. I've been here at 5am and been attacked by bottles of soda and bags of chips before now. Creeped me the hell out," Corey acknowledges as he approaches Vyv, that comment a quieter one, his dry tone somehow suggesting he doesn't mean it was because they were thrown by other people. "I wouldn't put anything past this place." And yet, he's still coming here.

"Mmn? Oh, while Ash and I were camping in Canada over the holiday period," - yes, in the snow and ice - "we gathered a load of checkerberries which have been hogging a drawer in my freezer since. Figured I'd see how they do in jams and jellies."

Vyv arches a brow at the mention of the 5am attack, the nod just slow enough to suggest he can imagine the lack of human hands. "Soda and chips. Yes, often a threat to one's health." The glance he sweeps the place with is slightly warier than before, which manages to combine with the disdain rather than displace it. "Very little I'd put past the place myself," he agrees, though at present he is apparently willing to accompany Corey probably-jarward. Safety in numbers, perhaps.

"You were camping. In Canada. In Winter. On purpose? I'd no idea you had such a masochistic streak, though I suppose it does give one a leg up in our field." There's as yet nothing in his basket at all, and given it's the hand-carried version he clearly doesn't intend it to carry very much. "Checkerberry..." He considers this a moment. "Teaberry, the wintergreen? Round red berries, about this size?" He holds finger and thumb apart to demonstrate. "Interesting. I'd like to know how that comes out. Could lead to some pleasing combinations."

Is there a slight hint of appreciation in Corey's body language when it seems that Vyv will wander the aisles with him? Only very faint, but greater safety in numbers is a thing, no matter how small those numbers might be. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I love camping in the snow," he confirms cheerfully. "Toasty piles of blankets and sleeping bags, hot chocolate made over a trangia, and hiking in glittering landscapes, assuming the snow stops for long enough to enjoy it," he adds with enthusiasm. Clearly the year working on a Canadian farm infected him with their enjoyment of arctic past-times. "Will do - I was.. uh." Pause. Glance over. "I was going to offer some for experimenting with."

If gossip can be believed, Vyv has at least once expressed the preference that Corey not die. Or perhaps he just prefers the idea of anything Strange having an alternate target to himself. But either way, incentive! The student chef earns an entirely dubious sidelong look for the profession of love for camping in the snow, none of the enumerated charms of which appear to make a dent in the slightly shorter man's opinion. "You are aware one can be pleasantly toasty and enjoy hot chocolate without actually courting frostbite, avalanches, and possibly polar bears, yes?" he inquires archly. "I've even heard rumours one can locate proper hotels from which one could spend a few hours trudging through the snow, were one sufficiently dedicated to self-flagellation and mortification of the flesh."

He glances down the next aisle as they pass it, eyeing the array of processed mass-market cookies and candy. "Yes, thank you. I'd quite like some of the berries if you've a surfeit."

"Very true. But it just.. I dunno. Hot chocolate just tastes better around a campfire," Corey opines, reaching out to snag a bag of goldfish crackers, dropping them into his basket; the motion seems habitual. Should it get a look, he explains it with simply, "Sparrow."

He nods to the mention of a surfeit, agreeing, "An entire freezer drawer full. I'll bring a few bags in tomorrow morning," he affirms; they'll be no good for decoration, being a bit mushy when thawed, but the fruity-minty taste should still be strong. "And a jar or two of the jelly when it's set."

Finally they find cookware, and he studies the various jars on offer before taking half a dozen round ones, and half a dozen hexagonal ones.

Absolutely it gets a look, brow arching. Enough's come up in past conversations for Vyv to surely be aware Sparrow is Corey's sister; nonetheless, "Even birds deserve better than that." A step or so. "Unless you're aiming to poison them, I suppose." And who hasn't entertained the notion of murdering a sibling now and then? "Or perhaps to throw the joy of not eating them into sharp relief when one stops. Is the creation of unpleasant circumstances for the pleasure of mitigating them a family trait?" Teasing, possibly? He doesn't seem inclined to make it easy to be sure.

"I think I can find the room for a few," he says, with a small nod as they enter the desired aisle. "Thank you. So, you hiked out into the snow you were camping in and decided to pick a freezer drawer's worth of winter berries. What did you carry them back in?" He studies the jars as well for a few moments, eyes narrowing and lips slightly pursed. "Hm." A hand extends; he claims about eight of the hexagonal ones as well.

"She loves goldfish crackers," is Corey's simple response, his grin wry. "I mean, she loves all the stuff I make for her too, but. Goldfish crackers are still on her list of comfort food." The question about carrying gets a bit of a smile from the student smith. "All of the saucepans, covered with wrap," he acknowledges. "A bit messy, but." Yes, apparently he took multiple saucepans camping. You can take the boy out of the kitchen..

Then, there's a spark of curiosity as Corey asks, "Do you ever go foraging for ingredients, chef?" His expectation is not - Vyv doesn't really look like the outdoorsy type at all, but he's willing to be surprised.

Vyv tuts Sparrow's clearly terrible taste in crackers, with a small shake of the head. Well, Corey's the one who'll need to cope with it, in the long run. "All of the saucepans. So, more than two, then, but if there were only two of you, fewer than five? Do hope you didn't have much more in the way of sauces to make." Or hot chocolate, but perhaps he had a kettle handy for that.

It's likely fair to presume from this that Vyv isn't particularly outdoorsy, yes; that or he's equally likely to bring along far more cooking gear than many would consider reasonable. "Once in a while, yes," doesn't make it sound as though he eagerly awaits the opportunities, but it's a variety of 'yes' even so. "The bioactive properties of plants are rather interesting, and one can't always rely on others to bring back just what one wants." A brief, considering pause, "Which is often why I end up in supermarkets as well, come to think of it."

"Four," Corey affirms. Obviously one needs pans of different sizes and uses; he may have been camping, but he's not a savage. "We went on a picking spree on the last day, so they were not needed after," he adds, nodding emphatically to the point made about other people not always bringing back the right thing. "Yeah. My household are happy to leave the grocery shopping to me. God only knows what they'd come back with." There's a slight nose-wrinkle, a remembered moment of horror perhaps.

"So, um. What flavour combinations are you experimenting with at the moment?" he wonders, turning to head vaguely in the direction of the checkout, his pace slow as he's enjoying the conversation.

But of course. One must maintain standards. "Did they do that thing at the border where they ask if you're transporting any fruit or veg? Did you lie?" A mildly entertaining thought.

His nose wrinkles a touch as well at imagining what Corey's housemates might bring back; he's seen the lamps, after all, and the affinity for goldfish crackers has just been established. No, surely best that Corey does the shopping, even if he will enable this aurichthyophilia. "Even giving a specific list isn't safe. I've seen papayas somehow mixed in among the mangoes, and a good deal of the accurate fruit isn't suitable for ever being visible..." Just thinking about it's irritating.

He lifts his free hand to about shoulder level when the younger man begins to move off, pointing back across his chest the way they came, toward the meat counter. No verbal comment, he simply turns afterward and begins walking that way. Presumably he expects cooperation, since he also answers the question. "A few things. Several florals, now that spring's rapidly approaching... even if no one seems to have informed the weather, as yet. I have a few new macarons about ready to bring into the rotation. But most recently... rum, citrus, butter, cloves. Something herbal, a bit earthy." And now, clearly, he's thinking about it again, eyes narrowing slightly as he walks. "Possibly cannabis, though that would keep the result off our shelves. But it might taste right."

"Yeah. Asked for kohlrabi, got turnips," Corey relates with a disappointed shake of the head. "I mean, they look nothing alike." Not entirely true, but he's sticking to his guns on that one. And did, at the time, much good that it did him. He changes his angle of movement at that gesture, walking alongside the Maītre Pātissier without a comment as to their destination, though he's never been confident of the quality of meat here. Maybe Vyv knows something he doesn't, some secret handshake to get to the good cuts.

Considering the comment about cannabis, Corey is hard pressed to suggest an alternative for the herbal/earthy combo, though doubtless Vyv would have tried any obvious ones already. "Might be good for advertising, though. Deliver a few to the weed store.." he muses with a lazy smile.

"Not the same," Vyv says, with a small headshake of his own, "Not even the same part of the plant! They could have chosen a cabbage and at least got closer." Though of course, the tone says, still not close enough. From the way he eyes the meat counter on approach, the chef may not be wholly satisfied with the options available there either, but for one reason or another has apparently decided it's the best available choice at this time. Life is very difficult in a small Washington town, some days. "Wonder if I could put a proper freezer in the basement," he murmurs to himself, scanning the food in the case.

The suggestion of using things as advertising via the dispensary gets a breath of a laugh. "I'd thought of it, once or twice," he allows, "...actually, I briefly considered selling things ourselves; no one under 21 allowed in. Lovely. But the rules on signage are silly, so, mn." And thus they remain a dealer in only the psychoactive substances deemed acceptable for all ages. "I believe a particular license would be required; it likely isn't worth the investment. But it is interesting." He signals the worker, who seems to have at least half an idea what she's doing and where the meat's from. It's not the sort of butcher either man would probably prefer, but Vyv swiftly ends up with two paper-wrapped packets of decent- though not amazing-quality cuts of meat, beef and lamb. He tucks them into the basket beside the jars. "Are you working on anything particular, aside from the berries?"

Watching the butcher do her work, Corey does order for himself some turkey mince, the kind of thing that is hard to get wrong. So it's fine, here. "Well, the berries go really well with lamb as a compote," he offers in response to the question, which probably is no surprise given their minty taste. "Other than the berries, experimenting with various flavoured cream and chocolate combinations on profiteroles - lemon cream and chocolate with ginger in is the best so far - and on the savoury side, maple and mustard marinade. Good with chicken and turkey, not so good with pork. Going to see if maple and cider works better."

"Mmn," Vyv says, nodding once to the appropriateness of the berries to lamb; not a shock, though for some reason it has him musing, "I've an entremets I've been toying with for a while that makes some use of mint. I wonder how the balance would work with teaberry instead." This is now on the list of things to try when the berries are bestowed. "Maple and cider with pork sounds lovely. Let me know if it works as nicely as it sounds as though it should. And how were the profiteroles arranged, lemon cream inside with ginger-chocolate ganache on top, or?" The bakery section gets a glare on principle as he starts in the general direction of the tellers; they're not actually having to pass particularly near to it, but its mere existence is an affront.

"Yeah, cream inside and ganache on top," Corey affirms. "The other way around tends to be messier, in my experience." There's a wry smile there, the student chef not against mess per-se, but it does slow things down. "Will do." He picks up his pace a little as they go past the so-called patisserie section, not looking that way as if to do so would be some kind of betrayal.

To the line of cashiers, and he slows down here so Vyv can pick which queue they end up in, Corey ending up behind the Maītre Pātissier, loading jars and goldfish and minced turkey onto the conveyor when there is space to do so.

Vyv gives a soft snort of amusement at that answer. "Yes, I would generally recommend the standard order of assemblage," he agrees, "but you might have combined the ginger into the lemon cream, or used a chocolate choux. Or a ginger-infused choux, for that matter." Or lemon, theoretically? He's definitely contemplating these potentials as he chooses a queue and begins unloading his basket onto the belt. "So far, so good," he remarks over his shoulder, "Not a single wayward soft drink." Which probably makes it sound to the checker as though he's dieting or something, but there's worse impressions to leave.