![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredericksA snippet of Friday night in pictures. OR ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fredericks and atraxia and the Chocolate Factory.
We went to Max Brenner's, conveniently located across the street from the movie theatre (I've officially seen Iron Man 3.5 times; it still rocks my socks) (and, seriously, the website is crazy pretentious, but the sweets are divine: "chocolate *culture*"? please to be shutting up and making me your awesome thick Italian dark hot chocolate, bald man), where we ordered the "Urban S'mores". I was of the opinion for it to be *truly* urban they should ship us outside in the rain and have us attempt to roast the marshmallows over a tin barrel using old newspapers as fuel, but this being urban for the NYU crowd we had a cute little sterno-dealie with which to work. The requisite marshmallows and graham crackers also came with some (read "six slices of the baby variety") bananas that appeared to be Fosterized, peanut butter, and a raspberry spread. And, oh yes, yet us not forget the liquid crack/milk chocolate in the vial.atraxia dared me to take the contents of the vial to the head. I declined but, as the evening went on, I did, in fact, end up eating a good bit of it using my fingers as she looked on and laughed herself silly (boo! to no spoons).
The sterno-dealie eventually went out and, out of desperation, one member of my party (not naming any names, but it wasn't me) attempted roasting marshmallows over the ambient lighting found on the table. Woman hath no shame when it comes to her sweets, say I.
The aftermath. It was like a sweet sweet flashback to camp. Without the traumatizing late-night stories about dead camp attendees that couldn't manage to keep it in their pants and ended up paying the ultimate price. Those were the halcyon days.
I like to play with my food. She likes to laugh at me while I play with my food. So I blame the sugar rush we no doubt had for her joining in with me. Notice the suicidal marshmallow attempting to jump into the flaming pit of sterno. There's also a slain marshmallow to the left, oozing raspberry and chocolate sauce, with nifty tribal markings improvised with a fork byatraxia. Behind that? The marshmallow with second- and third-degree burns to 35% of its spun-sugar body. Slightly off-camera there's a Carrie marshmallow, drenched in raspberry blood.
fredericks and atraxia and the Chocolate Factory. We went to Max Brenner's, conveniently located across the street from the movie theatre (I've officially seen Iron Man 3.5 times; it still rocks my socks) (and, seriously, the website is crazy pretentious, but the sweets are divine: "chocolate *culture*"? please to be shutting up and making me your awesome thick Italian dark hot chocolate, bald man), where we ordered the "Urban S'mores". I was of the opinion for it to be *truly* urban they should ship us outside in the rain and have us attempt to roast the marshmallows over a tin barrel using old newspapers as fuel, but this being urban for the NYU crowd we had a cute little sterno-dealie with which to work. The requisite marshmallows and graham crackers also came with some (read "six slices of the baby variety") bananas that appeared to be Fosterized, peanut butter, and a raspberry spread. And, oh yes, yet us not forget the liquid crack/milk chocolate in the vial.
atraxia dared me to take the contents of the vial to the head. I declined but, as the evening went on, I did, in fact, end up eating a good bit of it using my fingers as she looked on and laughed herself silly (boo! to no spoons). The sterno-dealie eventually went out and, out of desperation, one member of my party (not naming any names, but it wasn't me) attempted roasting marshmallows over the ambient lighting found on the table. Woman hath no shame when it comes to her sweets, say I.
The aftermath. It was like a sweet sweet flashback to camp. Without the traumatizing late-night stories about dead camp attendees that couldn't manage to keep it in their pants and ended up paying the ultimate price. Those were the halcyon days.
I like to play with my food. She likes to laugh at me while I play with my food. So I blame the sugar rush we no doubt had for her joining in with me. Notice the suicidal marshmallow attempting to jump into the flaming pit of sterno. There's also a slain marshmallow to the left, oozing raspberry and chocolate sauce, with nifty tribal markings improvised with a fork by
atraxia. Behind that? The marshmallow with second- and third-degree burns to 35% of its spun-sugar body. Slightly off-camera there's a Carrie marshmallow, drenched in raspberry blood.
