( Being friends with Alberto definitely meant being spontaneous. But... he can't help but think that that was just fine. It sort of kept things exciting, didn't it? )
[ Alberto doesn't bother responding, just smirks at his phone and sets it back on the kitchen counter, continuing to cook without pretense. After a moment, though, he does text Asriel one final note: ]
doors unlocked
[ Let yourself in, that is to say. There's an immediate homeyness about the space, Alberto clearly comfortable in creating his own element, the smells of pasta, marinara, chicken and cheese wafting through the air heavily, mixing with the sounds of Italian pop music drifting through the air with it. The boy is still involved in his handiwork in the kitchenette when Asriel walks in, although he doesn't realize he's not alone anymore for being so into his own silly theatrics, entertaining himself while cooking by singing and dancing. Still, very relaxed, very welcoming, regardless. And the scene Asriel will walk in on is quite relaxed, welcoming, and homey, indeed — albeit perhaps, um, odd and overwhelming, too...
It's nothing compared tohis hideoutback home, though very much in the same style somehow, but even without that mess he called home for reference, the visual impact still loses nothing. Alberto's been busy rebuilding his "collection," slowly but surely, ever since he's arrived. Alberto has amassed a lot of— well, junk, to be frank; but one man's trash is another man's treasure, as long as he does something cool with it. He felt too uncomfortable in the empty space the inn room was when he first arrived, especially considering it's all one room, kitchenette, bedroom, living room, office, all in one. He's made the space his own, that's for sure. Alberto's the furthest from minimalist — he's a maximalist. He's used to being alone, but, man, gotta fill the void somehow... Excess makes him feel at ease — and reminds him of his old safe space back home.
He did at least arrive here with his Vespa poster, which is hung proudly above his bed, right in the line of sight. On the wall his bed is pushed along, he has a taped togetherdrawing pinned to the wall, clearly important to him just by how it hangs alone right above his pillow. But apart from that, the rest of the wall has multiple rows of twine pinned up, with a couple dozen rectangular Polaroid photographs he's taken since coming here hung up by paperclips and bobby-pins and clothespins. All sorts of subjects are present, if one looks closely, no rhyme or rhythm to what he decides to photograph. A brown plaid flat cap hangs on hist bedpost; his bedspread is a simple red quilt (the bed messily made, but made nonetheless). There are white fairy lights strung up like a sparkling canopy above the bed, and several strings of colorful ones crawling down the back wall like rainbow twinkling vines.
Alberto's hung an old fishing net over the top half of the only window in the room, the central focus point upon entering, through which he's strung all kinds of random trinkets he's found around town, even cascades of tiny crystalshanging from a tree branch he shoved up on top of the armoire beside it, all refracting the colorful Christmas lights in subtle little rainbows all over the room, dancing in the corner of the eye. A big pair of binoculars hangs on a bent wire clothes hanger he nailed up upside down beside the window, using it like a hook. An intricate and delicate looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously all along the windowsill, sheerly for lack of room elsewhere; he doesn't even know what it is, he just thought it was pretty, so stole took it. He doesn't even have alchemy magic! It's not the best place for fragile magical artifacts, though... The windowsill is also adorned with various lengths of colorful ribbons hanging off it, with little bells and feathers and crumpled up balls of tinfoil tied onto their ends — homemade cat toys. There's even a string of many little bells hanging from the bathroom door knob, the door kept closed (as he seldom makes much use of it, the only undecorated area)... A frayed, very worn, woven circular rainbow rug brings each corner of the room visually together in the center.
There are several large dark green glass bottles strewn about all parts of the room, all empty olive oil bottles, lending some cohesion as well; a couple do have some wildflowers he's picked shoved in them, but most are left empty. One jar has a fair collection of magic wands sticking out of it, all of them also "taken" shortly after his arrival, but again just because he thought they were cool-looking sticks — he still has no clue what they do, even after so many weeks here... He found an old chaise longue at a flea market which he'd shoved against the wall in the corner of the room beside the window. Eventually expecting guests, y'know! Randomly a bent, rusty bicycle wheel is propped up against the sofa's side, some drawings and scraps of paper clipped to its spokes with clothespins, like it's some decorative bulletin board... Hanging above the couch in the corner, there are jars tied up with woven twine, some filled with random pieces of sea glass, seashells, acorns, cool rocks and little gemstones, all clearly ongoing collections. There's at least a somewhat empty space in front of the seat, though, keeping room at the foot of the next wall, because much of it is taken up by a wide roll of brown butcher paper he hung up on a curtain rod to draw a never-ending mural on, its present page half-filled with crazy-looking doodles of cats and self-portraits and Vespas and who knows what else. There's an open antique hard suitcase on the floor below it all but overflowing with crayons, markers and colored pencils in every imaginable color.
Just next to it, his desk is actually surprisingly neat — well, comparatively to, uh, everything else. It's kept functional. There's a rusty kerosene lantern on it, flame dancing in it presently, but most of the desk is clear except for some stray sketches, beside scattered leftover curly wood shavings and a whittling knife, a half-cut wood block, shape indistinct, and a few little figurines lined up along the back of the desktop, all of which Alberto's ostensibly carved himself: a tiny Vespa, a little rowboat complete with little oars, a— m-miniature wooden fork...? All alongside an old cup of espresso, left out half-empty and forgotten. Alberto's Polaroid camera sits in the center, open and unfolded out of its black leather case, which is tucked away carefully behind it, with a freshly opened pack of film next to it along with a few scattered empty black film casings, a couple still with new photos inside developing. The wooden desk chair has a bed pillow tied to its back with rope and a folded up green fleece blanket on the seat, makeshift cushions. Sticking out of the open drawers of the desk are a bunch of random tools — saws, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, knives, an axe, spatulas? Definitely some kitchenware mixed in there...
The kitchenette, though, is actually the only part of the room that looks comparatively functional and sensible, although it too is crowded and cluttered. Hanging on the walls are a string of garlic bulbs, a string of peperoncini, a couple tied-up bundles of indistinct green herbs left out to dry, pinned up along with a metal ladle, a metal spaghetti spoon, a mezzaluna and a few other various types of large knives, plus a copper colander. On the countertop there are a few glass canisters filled with dry pasta and small jars of various spices, a cheese grater, and a large wooden cutting board still with some stray garlic bits left on it, as well as a mortar and pestle, also freshly used. A tarnished silver stovetop espresso maker sits out hot and ready, fresh espresso in the making already, beside a stack of little white espresso cups and tins of coffee to match, one cup already prepared and halfway done, Alberto sipping along as he cooks dinner because why not, child with unregulated caffeine intake now for some extra pep. There's also a bowl of tangerines and lemons, a basket of ripe tomatoes, a big, dark green glass bottle of what can only be assumed to be olive oil, and a long loaf of bread with little bits torn off the end from spontaneous snacking. There is a small stack of dirty dishes left in the sink. Unsurprisingly, the fridge, too, has a bunch of photographs and drawings hung up by colorful alphabet magnets, spelling silly things like "FORZA," "ALBERTO," "VESPA," "MIAO! CIAO!" — y'know, key 'Alberto'-y words; and though he has to climb up to stand on the countertop to reach it, he even has a big glass jar on top of the fridge with more back-up letter magnets in it. It's a thoroughly well-stocked kitchen, obviously. A rather nice kitchen scene for an independent fourteen-year-old child, though, really.
On the stovetop sits the same pot of marinara sauce Alberto had shown in the picture, but Carlo's apparently left his position as sous-chef. The cat is eating from a bowl on the floor now, which Alberto has painted ᑕꪖᖇᒪօ on in his chicken-scratch handwriting. Looks like the cat is eating... raw chicken? Something pink and meaty. Another pot is sitting on the stovetop now, too, full of capellini boiling. As Asriel enters, he'll catch Alberto dancing and singing by himself along with the music as he stirs the pot of pasta with a toothed pasta spoon. There's a lot of hip-shaking and shoulder-shrugging along to the beat, complete disregard to whether Asriel may have entered or not, unawares with the loud music blaring from his phone at full volume. Asriel can see him lift the empty pasta spoon from the pot just to mime using it like a microphone, tapping his foot along in time, before shifting to point it intensely at the munching cat on the ground at the "ooooh~" ...which barely catches Carlo's attention, before it goes back to eating, and Alberto shifts poses to stick his arm straight out in the air the other way, dramatically pointing the spoon this way and that to end the chorus as he sings along in his native Italian, easily understood by Asriel due to the linguistic magic of Avalon... for better or worse. ]
Se guardo te, io sono bugiarda! (If I look at you, I am a liar!) L'amore c'è, è dentro di me! (Love is there, it’s inside me!) Amo te~! (It’s you that I love!) Oooooh~! [ He points to the cat with such gusto at this note... Carlo is surely the most patient familiar in all of Avalon. Just this blip of a moment proves it. ] Sono bugiarda, bugiarda, lo so~ (I am a liar, a liar, I know~)
[ Alberto's not a bad singer, but uh, he's not exactly trying to sing well, either. He's just having fun. Somehow it's not surprising at all that he's making his own fun while cooking with his cat even when he's alone like this (or so he thinks). ...The fact that he's drinking espresso at night also helps this, though, of course. ]
( Asriel takes the invitation and enters the Alberto's room at the inn, but when he does - he isn't quite sure where to start. There's so much, but not in a bad way. Chara and Asriel kept their room rather neat -- it was a habit that they had from home, thanks to their mother being intent on keeping a clean house. Alberto's personalized the home to feel more comfortable, more personal.
He can hear Alberto singing, and he follows the noise, walking through the home slowly and taking everything in until he finally makes his way into the kitchen. He can't help but stop in his steps when Alberto begins to sing before smiling a bit. He just looks like he's having so much fun, how could he not be happy to see his friend right now?
He doesn't really understand what he's saying, but... it sounds like a nice song, at least.
[ Even though he'd expected Asriel, invited him to let himself in, it still startles him — and the cat! — who both turn round to look at him with wide eyes. But Alberto doesn't miss a beat, pasta spoon still in hand, as he shim-shams at Asriel in beat with the instrumental bridge of the song, greeting him enthusiastically. ]
Ehiiii~! Asriel! Ciao! Benvenuto!
[ He twists, clumsily, albeit somewhat aggressively?!, and points the spoon directly at Asriel, continuing the song in an airy tone. ]
L'amore è quasi zero, no non val di più, (Love is almost a zero, it’s not worth anything more) Dopo, all'improvviso, arrivi tu~! (Then, suddenly, you show up) Ahaha~!
[ The magic of Avalon is a beautiful and wondrous thing, like a multilingual person recognizing another language is being spoken, but registering its meaning fluently, with... every language... They may hear most every conversation as if it's their own, but some things like music or terms that just carry their own unique cultural connotation, just have to fall on the ear in their own way. There's no realtranslation for Ciao after all, however it may be understood in any other language... It is what it is, organically — inextricably Italian. Music can't be stripped of that essence, either, even if it can be understood in another alternate dimension. It's an incredible thing, these barriers dropping — and regardless, just the barriers of reticence or shyness in any sense dropping, being shimmied and twisted away with a pasta spoon as a prop, is its own kind of special, silent language. Alberto knows no shame. He's loping Asriel into this no matter what, it seems. ]
( For a moment, all Asriel can do is watch him -- listening to the song in sung in a language that he hasn't heard before... but, it's pretty to say the least. Even if he couldn't understand it, he couldn't help but that that meaning still might be there all the same, and Asriel can't help but giggle again at just how happy and carefree Alberto is.
In a way, he can't help but be a bit envious. It feels like his own carefree days are long over... At the same time, he's always been someone to be happy to see others happy. He can't help but clap his hands a bit in applause. )
Hah! It's human stuff— humans have the best music!
[ He plops the spoon back in the pot, giving the pasta a stir, then sets it gracelessly on the countertop as he checks the chicken inside the oven. It's definitely that that smells so good, whenever he opens the door it just brings a fresh waft of it through the kitchen. ]
C'mere— Make yourself useful. We need bread and oil. There.
[ It may sound harsh in its directness, but he says it with all the nonchalance and airy affection his tone usually wears. He points lazily with one hand toward the loaf of bread and the big jar of olive oil, but doesn't give further instruction as he cranes his neck to examine the food still cooking inside the oven. ]
( For a moment, Asriel wants to ask why Alberto specifically said "human" music, but he's cut off when Alberto begins to instruct him. Considering that Asriel's used to Chara's rather distant, blunt nature here? He doesn't take much offense to what he says.
He moves to grab them with ease, bringing them over to Alberto. )
[ Alberto looks at Asriel with a bemused, amused face for a split second, then chuckles, breaking into an endeared smile. ]
Slice the bread, ragazzo~ Put that oil down, heh. Not yet~ See that long knife with the teeth there? Grab that one~
[ He points to his over-stocked knife rack hanging above the stove, indicating a basic bread knife, still examining the chicken in the oven. He forgets sometimes that Asriel is like four years younger than him and raised as royalty with ostensibly loving parents, from what he's heard from him and Chara, so probably hasn't had to fend for himself as much as Alberto has. He waves his hand lazily again toward the counter. ]
You do that, then we'll toast it in the oven to make it warm and crispy. Then we'll put the garlic and oil on! Ehi, while we're at it, go ahead and slice one of those garlic cloves in half, will ya? Just one is enough. This is just to hold us over, heh~ Fettunta!
[ He gestures to the long string of garlic bulbs pinned to the wall, acting as if he knows fully what he's doing — which, surprisingly enough, he does; he's not bluffing for once. The things Alberto has learned to make, whether mimicking Massimo's cooking or finding recipes on the "Everything Machine" here in Avalon on his own, are all fairly easy and simple, but fairly delicious. He shows a proclivity toward human food far more than he'd shown any interest in sea monster food, enjoying the heat and robust, unfamiliar flavors like garlic and herbs, cheese and olive oil. Even just the pollo alla parmigiana baking in the oven is a delicacy to him, simple as it is, served over capellini pasta, but every dish he's mastered of the three he's mastered is a source of immense pride for him and he's, as always, eager to show off. Even if it's just antipasto, toasted bread spread with fresh garlic and soaked in olive oil is a great beginning to hold them over until the chicken is done. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2021-10-16 03:35 am (UTC)( Being friends with Alberto definitely meant being spontaneous. But... he can't help but think that that was just fine. It sort of kept things exciting, didn't it? )
I'll be there soon, Alberto!
action; a novella
Date: 2021-10-16 07:05 am (UTC)doors unlocked
[ Let yourself in, that is to say. There's an immediate homeyness about the space, Alberto clearly comfortable in creating his own element, the smells of pasta, marinara, chicken and cheese wafting through the air heavily, mixing with the sounds of Italian pop music drifting through the air with it. The boy is still involved in his handiwork in the kitchenette when Asriel walks in, although he doesn't realize he's not alone anymore for being so into his own silly theatrics, entertaining himself while cooking by singing and dancing. Still, very relaxed, very welcoming, regardless. And the scene Asriel will walk in on is quite relaxed, welcoming, and homey, indeed — albeit perhaps, um, odd and overwhelming, too...
It's nothing compared to his hideout back home, though very much in the same style somehow, but even without that mess he called home for reference, the visual impact still loses nothing. Alberto's been busy rebuilding his "collection," slowly but surely, ever since he's arrived. Alberto has amassed a lot of— well, junk, to be frank; but one man's trash is another man's treasure, as long as he does something cool with it. He felt too uncomfortable in the empty space the inn room was when he first arrived, especially considering it's all one room, kitchenette, bedroom, living room, office, all in one. He's made the space his own, that's for sure. Alberto's the furthest from minimalist — he's a maximalist. He's used to being alone, but, man, gotta fill the void somehow... Excess makes him feel at ease — and reminds him of his old safe space back home.
He did at least arrive here with his Vespa poster, which is hung proudly above his bed, right in the line of sight. On the wall his bed is pushed along, he has a taped together drawing pinned to the wall, clearly important to him just by how it hangs alone right above his pillow. But apart from that, the rest of the wall has multiple rows of twine pinned up, with a couple dozen rectangular Polaroid photographs he's taken since coming here hung up by paperclips and bobby-pins and clothespins. All sorts of subjects are present, if one looks closely, no rhyme or rhythm to what he decides to photograph. A brown plaid flat cap hangs on hist bedpost; his bedspread is a simple red quilt (the bed messily made, but made nonetheless). There are white fairy lights strung up like a sparkling canopy above the bed, and several strings of colorful ones crawling down the back wall like rainbow twinkling vines.
Alberto's hung an old fishing net over the top half of the only window in the room, the central focus point upon entering, through which he's strung all kinds of random trinkets he's found around town, even cascades of tiny crystals hanging from a tree branch he shoved up on top of the armoire beside it, all refracting the colorful Christmas lights in subtle little rainbows all over the room, dancing in the corner of the eye. A big pair of binoculars hangs on a bent wire clothes hanger he nailed up upside down beside the window, using it like a hook. An intricate and delicate looking antique alchemy set is perched precariously all along the windowsill, sheerly for lack of room elsewhere; he doesn't even know what it is, he just thought it was pretty, so
stoletook it. He doesn't even have alchemy magic! It's not the best place for fragile magical artifacts, though... The windowsill is also adorned with various lengths of colorful ribbons hanging off it, with little bells and feathers and crumpled up balls of tinfoil tied onto their ends — homemade cat toys. There's even a string of many little bells hanging from the bathroom door knob, the door kept closed (as he seldom makes much use of it, the only undecorated area)... A frayed, very worn, woven circular rainbow rug brings each corner of the room visually together in the center.There are several large dark green glass bottles strewn about all parts of the room, all empty olive oil bottles, lending some cohesion as well; a couple do have some wildflowers he's picked shoved in them, but most are left empty. One jar has a fair collection of magic wands sticking out of it, all of them also "taken" shortly after his arrival, but again just because he thought they were cool-looking sticks — he still has no clue what they do, even after so many weeks here... He found an old chaise longue at a flea market which he'd shoved against the wall in the corner of the room beside the window. Eventually expecting guests, y'know! Randomly a bent, rusty bicycle wheel is propped up against the sofa's side, some drawings and scraps of paper clipped to its spokes with clothespins, like it's some decorative bulletin board... Hanging above the couch in the corner, there are jars tied up with woven twine, some filled with random pieces of sea glass, seashells, acorns, cool rocks and little gemstones, all clearly ongoing collections. There's at least a somewhat empty space in front of the seat, though, keeping room at the foot of the next wall, because much of it is taken up by a wide roll of brown butcher paper he hung up on a curtain rod to draw a never-ending mural on, its present page half-filled with crazy-looking doodles of cats and self-portraits and Vespas and who knows what else. There's an open antique hard suitcase on the floor below it all but overflowing with crayons, markers and colored pencils in every imaginable color.
Just next to it, his desk is actually surprisingly neat — well, comparatively to, uh, everything else. It's kept functional. There's a rusty kerosene lantern on it, flame dancing in it presently, but most of the desk is clear except for some stray sketches, beside scattered leftover curly wood shavings and a whittling knife, a half-cut wood block, shape indistinct, and a few little figurines lined up along the back of the desktop, all of which Alberto's ostensibly carved himself: a tiny Vespa, a little rowboat complete with little oars, a— m-miniature wooden fork...? All alongside an old cup of espresso, left out half-empty and forgotten. Alberto's Polaroid camera sits in the center, open and unfolded out of its black leather case, which is tucked away carefully behind it, with a freshly opened pack of film next to it along with a few scattered empty black film casings, a couple still with new photos inside developing. The wooden desk chair has a bed pillow tied to its back with rope and a folded up green fleece blanket on the seat, makeshift cushions. Sticking out of the open drawers of the desk are a bunch of random tools — saws, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, knives, an axe, spatulas? Definitely some kitchenware mixed in there...
The kitchenette, though, is actually the only part of the room that looks comparatively functional and sensible, although it too is crowded and cluttered. Hanging on the walls are a string of garlic bulbs, a string of peperoncini, a couple tied-up bundles of indistinct green herbs left out to dry, pinned up along with a metal ladle, a metal spaghetti spoon, a mezzaluna and a few other various types of large knives, plus a copper colander. On the countertop there are a few glass canisters filled with dry pasta and small jars of various spices, a cheese grater, and a large wooden cutting board still with some stray garlic bits left on it, as well as a mortar and pestle, also freshly used. A tarnished silver stovetop espresso maker sits out hot and ready, fresh espresso in the making already, beside a stack of little white espresso cups and tins of coffee to match, one cup already prepared and halfway done, Alberto sipping along as he cooks dinner
because why not, child with unregulated caffeine intake nowfor some extra pep. There's also a bowl of tangerines and lemons, a basket of ripe tomatoes, a big, dark green glass bottle of what can only be assumed to be olive oil, and a long loaf of bread with little bits torn off the end from spontaneous snacking. There is a small stack of dirty dishes left in the sink. Unsurprisingly, the fridge, too, has a bunch of photographs and drawings hung up by colorful alphabet magnets, spelling silly things like "FORZA," "ALBERTO," "VESPA," "MIAO! CIAO!" — y'know, key 'Alberto'-y words; and though he has to climb up to stand on the countertop to reach it, he even has a big glass jar on top of the fridge with more back-up letter magnets in it. It's a thoroughly well-stocked kitchen, obviously. A rather nice kitchen scene for an independent fourteen-year-old child, though, really.On the stovetop sits the same pot of marinara sauce Alberto had shown in the picture, but Carlo's apparently left his position as sous-chef. The cat is eating from a bowl on the floor now, which Alberto has painted ᑕꪖᖇᒪօ on in his chicken-scratch handwriting. Looks like the cat is eating... raw chicken? Something pink and meaty. Another pot is sitting on the stovetop now, too, full of capellini boiling. As Asriel enters, he'll catch Alberto dancing and singing by himself along with the music as he stirs the pot of pasta with a toothed pasta spoon. There's a lot of hip-shaking and shoulder-shrugging along to the beat, complete disregard to whether Asriel may have entered or not, unawares with the loud music blaring from his phone at full volume. Asriel can see him lift the empty pasta spoon from the pot just to mime using it like a microphone, tapping his foot along in time, before shifting to point it intensely at the munching cat on the ground at the "ooooh~" ...which barely catches Carlo's attention, before it goes back to eating, and Alberto shifts poses to stick his arm straight out in the air the other way, dramatically pointing the spoon this way and that to end the chorus as he sings along in his native Italian, easily understood by Asriel due to the linguistic magic of Avalon... for better or worse. ]
Se guardo te, io sono bugiarda! (If I look at you, I am a liar!)
L'amore c'è, è dentro di me! (Love is there, it’s inside me!)
Amo te~! (It’s you that I love!)
Oooooh~! [ He points to the cat with such gusto at this note... Carlo is surely the most patient familiar in all of Avalon. Just this blip of a moment proves it. ]
Sono bugiarda, bugiarda, lo so~ (I am a liar, a liar, I know~)
[ Alberto's not a bad singer, but uh, he's not exactly trying to sing well, either. He's just having fun. Somehow it's not surprising at all that he's making his own fun while cooking with his cat even when he's alone like this (or so he thinks). ...The fact that he's drinking espresso at night also helps this, though, of course. ]
action;
Date: 2021-10-21 01:12 am (UTC)He can hear Alberto singing, and he follows the noise, walking through the home slowly and taking everything in until he finally makes his way into the kitchen. He can't help but stop in his steps when Alberto begins to sing before smiling a bit. He just looks like he's having so much fun, how could he not be happy to see his friend right now?
He doesn't really understand what he's saying, but... it sounds like a nice song, at least.
He giggles quietly. )
Heehee, you look like you're having a lot of fun.
no subject
Date: 2021-10-22 05:46 am (UTC)Ehiiii~! Asriel! Ciao! Benvenuto!
[ He twists, clumsily, albeit somewhat aggressively?!, and points the spoon directly at Asriel, continuing the song in an airy tone. ]
L'amore è quasi zero, no non val di più, (Love is almost a zero, it’s not worth anything more)
Dopo, all'improvviso, arrivi tu~! (Then, suddenly, you show up)
Ahaha~!
[ The magic of Avalon is a beautiful and wondrous thing, like a multilingual person recognizing another language is being spoken, but registering its meaning fluently, with... every language... They may hear most every conversation as if it's their own, but some things like music or terms that just carry their own unique cultural connotation, just have to fall on the ear in their own way. There's no real translation for Ciao after all, however it may be understood in any other language... It is what it is, organically — inextricably Italian. Music can't be stripped of that essence, either, even if it can be understood in another alternate dimension. It's an incredible thing, these barriers dropping — and regardless, just the barriers of reticence or shyness in any sense dropping, being shimmied and twisted away with a pasta spoon as a prop, is its own kind of special, silent language. Alberto knows no shame. He's loping Asriel into this no matter what, it seems. ]
no subject
Date: 2021-11-07 07:50 am (UTC)In a way, he can't help but be a bit envious. It feels like his own carefree days are long over... At the same time, he's always been someone to be happy to see others happy. He can't help but clap his hands a bit in applause. )
Gosh! That's a really nice song.
no subject
Date: 2021-11-26 01:50 am (UTC)[ He plops the spoon back in the pot, giving the pasta a stir, then sets it gracelessly on the countertop as he checks the chicken inside the oven. It's definitely that that smells so good, whenever he opens the door it just brings a fresh waft of it through the kitchen. ]
C'mere— Make yourself useful. We need bread and oil. There.
[ It may sound harsh in its directness, but he says it with all the nonchalance and airy affection his tone usually wears. He points lazily with one hand toward the loaf of bread and the big jar of olive oil, but doesn't give further instruction as he cranes his neck to examine the food still cooking inside the oven. ]
no subject
Date: 2021-12-10 03:35 am (UTC)He moves to grab them with ease, bringing them over to Alberto. )
Here, Alberto! What should I do next?
this is technically after the beach log but do you wanna just roll w sea monster as a secret anyway?
Date: 2021-12-10 04:04 pm (UTC)Slice the bread, ragazzo~ Put that oil down, heh. Not yet~ See that long knife with the teeth there? Grab that one~
[ He points to his over-stocked knife rack hanging above the stove, indicating a basic bread knife, still examining the chicken in the oven. He forgets sometimes that Asriel is like four years younger than him and raised as royalty with ostensibly loving parents, from what he's heard from him and Chara, so probably hasn't had to fend for himself as much as Alberto has. He waves his hand lazily again toward the counter. ]
You do that, then we'll toast it in the oven to make it warm and crispy. Then we'll put the garlic and oil on! Ehi, while we're at it, go ahead and slice one of those garlic cloves in half, will ya? Just one is enough. This is just to hold us over, heh~ Fettunta!
[ He gestures to the long string of garlic bulbs pinned to the wall, acting as if he knows fully what he's doing — which, surprisingly enough, he does; he's not bluffing for once. The things Alberto has learned to make, whether mimicking Massimo's cooking or finding recipes on the "Everything Machine" here in Avalon on his own, are all fairly easy and simple, but fairly delicious. He shows a proclivity toward human food far more than he'd shown any interest in sea monster food, enjoying the heat and robust, unfamiliar flavors like garlic and herbs, cheese and olive oil. Even just the pollo alla parmigiana baking in the oven is a delicacy to him, simple as it is, served over capellini pasta, but every dish he's mastered
of the three he's masteredis a source of immense pride for him and he's, as always, eager to show off. Even if it's just antipasto, toasted bread spread with fresh garlic and soaked in olive oil is a great beginning to hold them over until the chicken is done. ]